


Fallout

by Meg13



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Blinky gets beat up, Canon Divergence, Changeling Jim, F/M, Family Drama, Feelings, Nomura's back and she brought a friend, Pixies, Sibling Rivalry, Toby is much more observant than he looks, Ugh, Written Pre S3, a father/son heart-to-heart, an epiphany, and the shock of his life, auntie nomura's mind is in the gutter, awkwardly trying to bond with your girlfriend's kid, but that's not really what it's about, changeling style, especially with a pterodactyl stalking your kid, even if Jim doesn't know that's what it is, making up is easy to do, parenting is hard, self-indulgent af, someone takes a bat to the gronk-nuks (and we all know who that someone is), two steps forward, who is also your kid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg13/pseuds/Meg13
Summary: It all starts with a knock on the door.(Well, that’s not actually true. It really started when a frustrated history professor and a broken-hearted med student found themselves reaching for the same shot of tequila at Ted’s on Taco Tuesday sixteen years ago. But more on that later.)Or: my contribution to 'jim is a changeling' and i don't know why, but i'm such a sucker for this.





	1. I. Wherefore Art Thou, Trollhunter?

It all starts with a knock on the door.

(Well, that’s not actually true. It _really_ started when a frustrated history professor and a broken-hearted med student found themselves reaching for the same shot of tequila at Ted’s on Taco Tuesday sixteen years ago. But more on that later.)

It’s been one of _those_ days. The kind that makes you question your life choices and contemplate the possibility of squishing an entire horde of goblins under an almost-but-not-totally complete bridge, and though he would prefer a glass of Pinot and the comforts of some smooth jazz, Walter finds himself reluctantly standing on the front porch of the Lake residence. He has never made a house-call before, preferring to prove due diligence through ignored phone calls and unanswered emails, but this visit is meant to fulfill obligations for both of his hired professions and so he forces himself to raise his arm and knock.

There’s no answer, which he finds slightly perturbing since the curtains in the living room are wide open and he’d spotted the good doctor on his way up the steps. He leans to the right to peer through the window again just in time to see the back of Barbara Lake’s head disappear behind the couch.

 _Rude_ , he thinks with a scowl and knocks again with more vigor.

His hearing is exceptional (by human standards anyway), so he’s able to pick up a groan of frustration followed by the sound of her heavy, unenthusiastic steps as she makes her way to the door and then answers it. Walter opens his mouth but shuts it immediately as his heart flops unexpectedly at the sight of the tall redhead. There’s something oddly familiar about the woman in front of him, something that has nothing to do with the familial traits she shares with her son, and Walt finds himself at a loss for words as he stares at her with a confused expression on his face.

“Um, hello,” he finally manages after a painfully awkward amount of time. “My name is Walter Strickler. I’m your son’s History teacher.”

Barbara’s eyebrows furrow and Walter is relieved to see that she seems to be as flustered as he is.

“I’d like to talk to you about some of the concerns I have with Jim’s performance in class,” Walter tilts his head to the side, “but I can come back if this is a bad time?”

“Oh. No,” Barbara says after clearing her throat, “of course I have time to discuss Jim. What’s going on? He isn’t failing your class, is he?”

“Not yet,” Walter says as he slowly regains control of his thoughts. What is it about this woman that has him feeling so completely out of his element? “He’s been having a hard time focusing in class lately and there has been a drastic decline in the quality of the work he submits. I’m worried he may be overextending himself with his extracurricular activities.”

“Extracurricular activities?” Barbara frowns. “He hasn’t mentioned any extracurricular activities to me.”

“It’s my understanding you work long hours?” He knows he’s offended her as soon as the words leave his mouth and watches ruefully as her jaw clenches and her chin raises defiantly. He tries to backtrack immediately. “I mean-“

“I fail to see why my schedule should affect my son’s ability to effectively communicate with me,” Barbara interrupts. “We text throughout the day and he checks in regularly when I’m at the hospital.”

“But,” Walter asks as delicately as possible, “he hasn’t mentioned the chess club or the play?”

Barbara’s eyes slide sideways. “Erm, no.”

Walter gives her a patient smile, the one he reserves for placating angry parents _and_ violent troll overlords, and peeks around her as the sound of a tea kettle whistling reaches his ears. “Your water has boiled. Maybe we can discuss Jim’s new responsibilities in more detail over a cup of tea?”

“How…” Barbara frowns and glances over her shoulder. “How did you hear that? Do you have superhuman ears or something?”

“Or something,” Walter chuckles nervously and takes the opportunity to survey his surroundings as Barbara leads him through the house. The furniture is a little dated and he’s surprised the television still works, but their home seems to be well-kept and in good condition overall. There are few personal touches, probably due to her limited time at home, but he does spot a handful of framed photos as they walk through the living room. They’re mostly of Jim, though there is one portrait of a couple he assumes are her parents hanging near the hall and an older snapshot of Barbara holding a newborn Jim on the console table.

Something about the picture causes him to pause and he’s contemplating plucking it off the table for a closer inspection when Barbara calls from the kitchen, “Lemon or honey?”

“Lemon,” Walter answers and strides into the kitchen without a second glance at the photo, “please.”

“No sugar?” Barbara asks as she hands Walter his teacup. He shakes his head as she leads him to the kitchen table to continue their conversation. “So, Jim is in the chess club?”

“Apparently,” Walter reveals skeptically, “he was scouted by the team?”

“Scouted?” Barbara scoffs. “Don’t get me wrong, Jim is a very smart boy. But I tried to teach him chess a few months ago and it went right over his head. He had absolutely _no_ interest in the game.”

“You play chess?” Walter sits further up in his chair and peers at Barbara with interest. He plays online every now and then (mostly when he should be grading quizzes or tracking down missing bridge pieces) but hasn’t had any luck finding a decent opponent in real life and is pleased to find someone else who shares his affinity for the game.

“I’m a bit rusty, but yes.” Barbara smiles wistfully. “My dad taught me when I was a kid. He was so proud the first time I legitimately beat him.”

“My father taught me, as well. We had the most exquisite set carved from ivory and it drove him mad when I would smash the pieces together.” His human father had been a complete bastard, but the few fond memories he did have of the man centered around the chessboard. “He was a politician and valued the strategy behind the game.”

“A politician?” Barbara raises an eyebrow. “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

Yes. “No.”

“After the military, my father went into sales,” Barbara says, thoughtfully. “Of the door-to-door variety. He could sell you the shirt off your back but was too noble to ever do it. Maybe that’s where Jim gets his acting abilities from? Though he’s never shown any interest in that either.”

“Oh, I believe I can explain that one,” Walter leans forward and eyes her conspiratorially. “It’s for a girl.”

“Wait, let me guess,” Barbara laughs and grabs at her heart. “Ooh, _Claire_!”

“Bingo.” Walter points at her and sits back in his chair, grinning. “It seems he finally took my advice and actually _talked_ to Miss Nunez.”

“He talked to her?” Barbara’s eyes widen in feigned wonder. “What a concept. God, kids have no social skills these days.”

“I blame social media.” Walter grabs his teacup but doesn’t drink from it. “In my day, we actually had to interact with one another face-to-face. None of this texting and snaptalk.”

“Snapchat,” Barbara corrects. “I do pay _some_ attention, even if I’m not home very often.”

Walter winces inwardly. “I deserve that.”

“No, you’re right.” Barbara sighs and begins fiddling with her teacup. “I’ve _always_ wanted to be a doctor, but it’s very difficult to juggle such a demanding career and motherhood. Especially with Jim’s dad out of the picture.”

“I can see how that would be difficult. But Jim is a wonderful child,” Walter says earnestly, frowning because it’s true and he _really_ doesn’t want to have to have to kill the boy. “You’ve done a great job.  You shouldn’t sell yourself short.”

“Thanks.” She smiles, genuinely grateful for the reinforcement. “What about you? Married? Kids?”

“Neither. I’m just very much like you; dedicated to my work. Married to the job, they say.”

“Well, shaping the minds of our youth is rather important.” Barbara nods her head sagely. “Did you always want to teach high school history?”

“Oh god, no,” Walter snorts, eyes wide. “I’ve done my share of field work and have spent some time in museums. I taught at UNC a few years back.”

“Ah, Yes. I actually knew that.” Barbara drops her gaze to her cup. “I went to med school there.”

“Really?” Walter frowns at the sudden tension in Barbara’s shoulders. “When did you attend?”

“2000 to 2005.” Barbara looks up. “I would have graduated in ‘04, but I took a semester off when Jim was born.”

“Oh?” He’s missing something and he knows it. “I was teaching undergrad history then.”

“Ancient Civilizations and Greek Mythology, right?” Barbara breathes, smiling faintly. “Your students were inept, your department chair was a tenured dick, and your TA didn’t know his head from his ass. Granted, it’s been sixteen years so those may not have been your exact words.”

Walter is unable to do much more than stare at her as the pieces finally fall into place. He knows why she seems so familiar now, why that picture of her gave him pause. “Yes,” he says after a moment of cognizant processing, “James was a right idiot. I do believe I had him sacked a few days after shagging his girlfriend.”

“I wasn’t his girlfriend when we slept together,” Barbara reminds him gently. “That’s why I was at the bar, remember?”

Oh, he remembers - remembers the frustration and anger that had driven him to that bar, remembers ordering a shot of tequila and watching it slide to a stop between him and the pretty redhead to his left, remembers their fingers closing around the cold glass at the same time and the electricity her touch sent through him. He remembers taking her home with him, though the events that followed are still somewhat blurry.

“You were gone when I woke up,” he’s surprised by the accusation in his tone.

“I had a one-night stand with a professor.” Barbara shrugs. “It wasn’t one of my prouder moments.”

“There was literally a BINGO card with professor’s names on it circulating the sororities.” Why does he still feel so bitter all these years later? “I was propositioned every other day.”

Barbara raises an eyebrow.

“I never accepted,” Walter squawks indignantly. “You are the _only_ student I have ever gone off with.”

“If you did it once-“

“I _liked_ you,” Walter sneers, offended by her assumptions. “You were – _are_ – beautiful and intelligent and I enjoyed talking with you. I shouldn’t have pursued you once I realized you were a student, but I did so because…” He trails off with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does- “Barbara immediately stops talking when the front door creaks open. She looks troubled, her eyebrows knotting thoughtfully as she stares at Walter, but it’s obvious she won’t be continuing this line of conversation now that Jim has come home. “In the kitchen, honey. Look who stopped by.”

Jim, who had been babbling about some misadventure he’d been caught up in on his way home, freezes when he enters the kitchen. “Mr. Strickler?”

Walter reluctantly tears his gaze from Barbara, who is glancing between the boy and the changeling intently, and forces a smile as he turns to his student. “Hello, Jim.”

“What…” Jim glances from his teacher to his mother and back again. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to congratulate you.” He’d usually monologue or quote or allude to Jim’s newfound Trollhunting responsibilities, but he just doesn’t have the energy. “I’m sure you’ll do the part of Romeo justice.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were trying out for the school play?” Barbara asks and, still sporting a somewhat troubled look, pushes back in her chair to stand. Walter, correctly interpreting the action as a dismissal, follows suit a moment later.

“Wait, can we back up a few steps?” Jim turns on his heel to watch Barbara and Walter pass him on their way out of the kitchen.

“Jim, surely you knew you won the part?” Walter says and turns back just before he reaches the foyer. “After that breathtaking audition yesterday, how could you not have?”

“Yeah,” Jim frowns and scratches the back of his neck in what Walter recognizes as a nervous gesture. “After the audition I had to run but… Wait. I got the part?”

Walter nods. “But Jim, I also came to tell your mother about my concerns. I’m afraid you may be spreading yourself too thin with your new commitments.”

“Like the chess club?” Barbara chimes in, already standing by the open door. “I thought you hated chess. And acting?  It’s like you have this secret life I know nothing about.”

“You have no idea,” Jim scoffs, rolling his eyes.

Walter sighs. “Young Atlas, too, carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.” He frowns as he glances at the picture on the console one last time. “I’m afraid you may be overextending yourself.”

“Eh.” Jim shrugs off the changeling’s words with a wave of his hand. “I can handle it.”

“I’ve no doubt you’re capable.” Walter levels a concerned look at his favorite-student-turned-thorn-in-his-side. “But you did fall asleep in my class a few days ago.”

“Wait.” Barbara interrupts, curiously holding up one hand. “You didn’t mention that part.”

“I do believe our conversation took a rather abrupt turn before I had the chance,” Walter’s voice is much softer now and he tilts his head as he approaches her. “Don’t you?”

Barbara smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’d like to finish talking with you.”

“I think we need to.” The way she stresses the words and the imploring, knowing look in her eye sets him on edge. “Here.” Barbara reaches forward, her fingers brushing against Walter’s chest as she pulls a pen and piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket. She scribbles her number down and hands the scrap back to him. “Call me.”

Walter smirks as he takes, not only the slip of paper, but Barbara’s hand into his own. He drops a lingering kiss on her knuckles, relishing in her quiet gasp at the contact, and murmurs, “I will.”

Jim loudly clears his throat, effectively shattering the moment.

“Young Atlas,” Walter calls with a lazy salute as he walks out the door. “Don’t forget to study for the quiz tomorrow.”


	2. I. Waka Chaka

They meet for coffee Friday and Sunday mornings _and_ Monday afternoon, but the rendezvous are short and don’t leave time for much in-depth conversation. Instead, they laugh over Walter’s high-school horror stories and cringe at some of Barbara’s more adventurous ER encounters. There is a lot of caffeine consumed and a lot of playful banter exchanged, and they agree to meet for dinner at Walter’s on Tuesday evening.

An event he’s not at all nervous about. Though he does feed a stack of scantrons into the machine the wrong way that morning and he may continually confuse Greek deities for their Roman counterparts throughout the afternoon and he somehow manages to address his last email meant for Mrs. Bullard to a Mr. Bular – but no, he’s not nervous or anxious at all.

He shouldn’t be, at least. Not with the level of shameless flirtation and overt innuendo they’ve managed to achieve over the past week.

It had started innocently enough. He’d emailed her a brief recap of their conversation (the small part pertaining to Jim, that is) as proof he’d been in contact with her should Principal Levit question him. She’d responded with confirmation that they’d discussed Jim’s grades in detail, and then Walter had almost choked on his tea when he’d read her comments of how impressed she was with _his_ satisfying and pleasurable performance… as a dedicated educator, of course. The ensuing email chain quickly devolved into such obvious subtext that _anyone_ could decipher it, and he’d realized using his professional email in this manner was highly inappropriate. The text messages that followed were even more blatant and often left him leering at his phone in the middle of class.

Which, in retrospect, may _actually_ be why his heart is beating so damned erratically against his chest as he ushers Barbara into his apartment.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, gazing curiously about the spacious living room as Walter hangs her jacket in the coat closet. “It was a slow day as far as patients go, but I had an embarrassing amount of paperwork to catch up on.”

“No apology necessary,” Walter murmurs into her ear, smirking when she jumps in surprise at how suddenly close he is. “I, myself, had quite a lot of _emails_ to return.”

“Hmm.” Barbara turns to look up at him, frowning dramatically. “I don’t think I received a response to the last one I sent you.”

“Oh, I definitely responded to that email,” Walter snorts, quirking an appreciative eyebrow as his palm comes to a rest against the small of her back. She leans into him slightly as he guides her through the apartment, stopping every few steps to answer one of her questions regarding the architecture or the art or the furniture. He finds her fascination with his ageing (because it’s not nearly old enough to be considered _historical_ ) home endearing and enjoys providing the impromptu history lessons as they head into the small, intimate dining room.  

The table, an exquisite Nouveau piece he’s been lugging around since the 30’s, is already set. He’d been lucky with the timing of the trout, as it’s still hot and the broccoli is still steaming when he pulls Barbara’s chair out for her and then rounds the table to take a seat.

“Wine?”

“Yes, please.” Barbara picks up her wineglass and tilts it toward him, smiling in that endearingly lopsided way of hers.

Walter catches her eye as he pours her wine. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” Barbara honestly replies and lets her gaze fall to the plate in front of her. “This looks amazing.”

And it is. The trout is delicious, with a pecan crust and lemon caper sauce, and the sides have been seasoned to absolute perfection. They laugh mostly; and then they reminisce. Walter tells Barbara about his unsuccessful attempt at contacting her in the weeks following their night together and, after a moment of hesitation, Barbara admits she stopped by his office near the end of that semester but he’d already left for a fellowship in Greece. With a rueful snort, Walter raises his glass and they toast to “missed opportunities”.

They steer the conversation back to more familiar, safe topics after that and they’re both wracked with giggles by the time they finally finish eating. Barbara immediately volunteers to do the dishes and Walter reluctantly acquiesces, but only if she lets him dry. They stand side-by-side at the sink, nudging each other playfully as they go about their assigned tasks, and find that the chore is much more enjoyable when they’re doing it together.

“Thank you, Walt,” Barbara says, glancing up at Walter before re-submerging her hands in the soapy water. “Dinner really was delicious.”

 Walter chuckles. “Anything can be considered delicious when you’re ravenous.”

“That’s true,” Barbara concedes and passes him a clean fork. “But that fish _was_ cooked perfectly. You’re quite the chef, you know. I bet you could even give Jim a run for his money.”

“Jim can cook?” Walter asks, eyebrows quirking. Is there anything the Trollhunter _can’t_ do? “Did you teach him?”

“Oh no. I’ve managed to screw up tea.” Barbara laughs at the incredulous look on Walter’s face before turning back to scrub a dinner plate. “It’s true. I’m surprised I’m even _allowed_ in our kitchen. No, he’s just naturally talented.”

“A trait passed on by his father, perhaps?” Walter suggests.

“It’s,” Barbara glances sideways at him, “possible.”

“Though I find it hard to picture James in a kitchen,” Walter says after a moment, looking thoughtful. “He always seemed to have a very _traditional_ attitude when we discussed gender roles in ancient civilizations. I’ll admit, I was quite surprised when I found out he was dating a future surgeon. Even more so after I met you.” He accepts the clean plate with a shake of his head. “What did happen to my not-so-trusty TA?”

“Remarried, two kids.” Barbara shrugs and holds out a couple of clean knives. “I haven’t actually talked to him since the day he walked out, so I don’t know for sure.” At Walter’s look of confusion, Barbara clarifies, “Our divorce was handled by the lawyers and all the paperwork was completed through email or fax. It’s been radio silence since.”

“He’s never tried to contact Jim?”

“No.”

“But he’s his father.”

“Um.” Barbara grimaces and gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not exactly.”

Walter’s brow furrows and he’s opening his mouth for further questioning when his phone vibrates off the counter behind them. “My apologies,” he snorts, shooting Barbara an exasperated look before crossing the kitchen to retrieve the device from the floor. He frowns when Nomura’s picture flashes up at him and turns back to Barbara. “My colleague. She never calls unless –“

“It’s fine,” Barbara says, waving him off with a forced smile. She looks uncomfortable suddenly, though she’s trying not to show it, and Walter makes a mental note not to push her on the subject of Jim’s father. It’s really none of his business anyway, he reasons as he answers Nomura’s call.

“Hel-“ He’s immediately assaulted by a rapid fire barrage of rather creative curses and expletives. “-lo. Nomura. Nomura, I can’t…” Walter chances a glance at Barbara, who is politely pretending to appear fully intrigued by the fish skin stuck to the saucepan, before barking the Trollish equivalent of “shut the fuck up” into the phone.

“The Trollhunter,” Nomura growls breathlessly. “He broke into my museum. He _saw_ me, Stricklander. And he set a goddamn horde of goblins on me!”

“Check for damage,” Walter seethes through clenched teeth. He wants to scream, to demand answers, to make not-at-all idle threats, but Barbara’s presence forces him to maintain some form of composure. “I will be there shortly.”

“Will you tell-“

But he’s already ended the call knowing full well he _will_ be telling Bular and will fully support whatever gruesome consequences the brute chooses to saddle her with, if only to keep his own head attached to his shoulders a little while longer.

“Is everything okay?”

“I’m afraid not,” Walter sighs and turns back to find Barbara drying her hands on the dish towel. “There’s been an incident at the museum. A break-in. It…” He really doesn’t want to tell her, not with that concerned frown of hers tugging at his heartstrings. “It was Jim.”

“What?”

“Miss Nomura recognized him from our last school trip,” Walter lies smoothly. “I’m sure it was – “

“He is _so_ dead.”

The way she growls the threat and the sudden blazing fury in her eye is surprising, but not at all unwelcome. In fact, Walter quite likes the aggressive way she whips the towel onto the counter and he can’t help the appreciative leer that spreads across his face as she strides over to him.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes earnestly, and disappointment replaces a great deal of the anger in her eyes as she reaches out to twine her fingers through his. “Obviously, this is _not_ how I wanted our evening to end.”

Despite the seriousness of Nomura being compromised and Bular’s penchant for murdering the messenger (which he will undoubtedly be), Walter finds himself slyly asking, “And how _did_ you want it to end?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Barbara murmurs, her voice lower and huskier than usual, and Walter wonders if she realizes exactly what she’s doing to him as she imperceptibly curves forward so that her chest just barely brushes against his.

“He set off the alarm,” he blurts out suddenly and then blinks at how extraordinarily stupid he sounds. He shakes his head and tries to backtrack, “What I mean to say, is that the police will be looking for him because he set off the alarm. I assume they’ll contact you once he’s in custody, so there’s no real reason to rush off just yet.”

Barbara nods, but looks doubtful. “Do you think Miss Nomura will press charges?”

“I’ll talk to her,” Walter assures and gives her hands a confident squeeze. “We’ve known each other a very long time and she owes me.”

“Thank you, Walt.” Barbara sighs and drops her gaze to their clasped hands. “I really don’t deserve any favors from you, but I truly appreciate it, nonetheless.”

He senses _something_ in her tone – something bitter or perhaps remorseful – but he doesn’t have the chance to analyze it before her cell is suddenly vibrating in her pocket. She lets go of his hands as she steps back, and Walter emits an unexpected whine from the back of his throat at the lack of contact as she answers the call.

“You were right,” Barbara says a few minutes later as she pockets the phone again. “Jim and Toby were caught on their way home from the museum. They’re being booked now and Miss Nomura is giving her statement.”

He knows that already, having heard every word of her exchange with the officer. “Would you like me to accompany you? I can speak with Nomura.” He stops her before she can protest, “The station is only a few blocks from here. I’ll enjoy the walk home.”

“If it’s not too much to ask,” Barbara says with an affirmative nod and a grateful smile. “And I may need you there to bail me out if I wind up killing one of them.”

“It would be my pleasure to secure your release from prison,” Walter laughs, flipping off the lights as he trails Barbara to the front door. “Although, I do believe it’s in your best interest to avoid incarceration in the first place. You’re far too valuable to the community.”

Barbara snorts and rolls her eyes, but Walter finds the sudden flush to her cheeks adorable and he wraps his arm around her shoulder as they navigate out of the building and into the car.

It’s a very short ride to the police station and, while she continues to chat, Walter can sense Barbara’s growing irritation the closer they get. He almost feels sorry for the boys by the time they park, but he’s also undeniably eager to watch her tear into the Trollhunter and his little friend.

“Are you okay?”

Barbara takes a deep breath and nods. “I just can’t believe I’m picking my son up from jail. It’s not something you expect as a parent, you know?”

He doesn’t know, and only really cares because she does, but he does offer her a small, supportive smile as they walk into the lobby together. Nomura is there already, waiting on one of the benches with her hands clasped in her lap. Walter gestures to her and tells Barbara he’ll have a word while she sees to Jim and Toby’s release. She nods, and Walter watches her until she disappears through a set of double-doors before turning on his anxious subordinate. “What,” he says slowly, his voice low and dangerous, “happened?”

It’s a quick story and Nomura has already left a half-hour later when Barbara strides back through the double-doors, two shame-faced teenagers trailing after her. She’s obviously livid, with her clenched jaw and red cheeks, but some of the tension seems to melt away at the sight of Walter and she doesn’t sound quite as hostile when she passes Jim the keys and commands them to wait in the car.

“Both of them have meetings with a counselor next week, but Officer Baird said this won’t even show on their records,” Barbara huffs, glaring over Walter’s shoulder at Jim as he climbs into her car. “Who breaks into a museum for a Chubby Tracker? I’m just so…” She shakes her head, attempting to calm herself before looking up. “Thank you so much. I don’t think I could have stayed calm without you.”

“I doubt that,” Walter says and wonders if it would be inappropriate to hold her hand as they meander down the stone steps. He figures she probably wouldn’t feel comfortable with such an intimate gesture in front of her son (not yet, at least) and reserves himself to letting his fingers brush against hers as they round the car. “If you can maintain composure while cracking open a man’s chest cavity, you can handle a little run-in with the law. Though I _do_ wish they’d chosen another night to commit their first felony.”

“You’re not the only one,” Barbara breathes and steps back as Walter moves forward to open the door for her. “Dinner was amazing and I’m sure dessert would have been even better.”

“Oh,” he falters, forehead creasing. “I actually hadn’t planned for dessert.”

“But, I did.”

Walter freezes, eyes wide, as Barbara flashes him an impish smirk and slips past him. He makes a mental note to add _that_ to the growing list of transgressions committed by the Trollhunter and then blinks. “Ah,” he coughs and ducks his head. “A raincheck, perhaps?”

“Friday,” Barbara answers confidently, rolling her eyes in amusement at Jim’s horrified squawk and Toby’s awed guffaw. “I won’t bake, I promise. Do you like apple pie?”

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy _any_ dessert you choose to serve.” Walter chuckles. “Goodnight, Barbara.”

He closes the door, careful not to let it slam, and knocks twice on the hood before taking a step backward. Barbara gives him a little wave as she pulls away from the curb and his shoulders shake with silent laughter when an outraged Jim can be heard bellowing, “Did you just offer my teacher _dessert_!?”


	3. I. Win Lose Or Draal

Barbara, as usual, gets tied up at work.

Walter’s heart sinks when he receives the message. They’ve maintained a steady stream of communication since Tuesday, but text messages and quick calls do little to curb his desire to actually _see_ her - which is exhilarating _and_ deeply disturbing at the same time, considering he works for a tyrannical troll-demon hellbent on the annihilation of humankind (but, details) – and he’s _really_ been looking forward to that apple pie she’d so graciously offered earlier in the week.   

But he’s crafty and persistent, and responds immediately with an offer to meet her at her house once her shift is over. They can stay in, he suggests, and grins when her reply of ‘ **pizza, 8** ’ is received a moment later.

He’s got time to kill, so he places the order at the restaurant a little while later and then heads over to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of Noir. At precisely eight o’clock he kicks his passenger door closed and balances the pizza on one palm as he watches Barbara pull into her driveway.

“I’d help you,” she calls over the hood of the car, “but I’ve got my hands full, too.”

Walter chuckles when she holds up a store-bought pie and quickly moves to follow her into the house through the open garage. “Paperwork all done?”

“Mhmm,” Barbara hums as they walk into the kitchen. She sets down the pie and flips on the oven. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

“Of course not,” Walter says while turning down the oven temperature and shoving the pizza inside. He turns and gives the bottle of wine a short shake. “Shall I have a glass waiting for you?”

“That would be wonderful,” Barbara takes a step toward him and smirks as she presses her lips against his cheek. “Thank you. I promise I won’t be long. Just really want to get out of these clothes, you know?”

Oh, he knows.

He swallows and nods as she walks out of the kitchen, and then turns his attention to finding a bottle opener. He’s lucky enough to spot one in the second drawer he checks and is busy popping the cork when the doorbell rings. He hesitates, not quite sure of the proper protocol when your beautiful host is upstairs showering, but then heads toward the foyer when the bell chimes a second time.

“Nomura?” Walter cocks his head in confusion as the door swings open to reveal his fellow changeling. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Nomura answers, a cheshire-like smirk spreading across her face as she gestures to the open bottle of wine still in his hand. “Are you dating the Trollhunter’s mother?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Walter snaps, irritated by the directness of the question. And her presence, in general.

“Maybe, not.” She quirks an eyebrow. “But I’m sure Bular would be interested to know about your extracurricular activities.”

“Is that a _threat_ , Nomura?”  

“Of course not,” she says with a nonchalant shrug, completely nonplussed by the way his eyes flash gold and crimson. “Just an opinion.”

“I find,” Walter hisses, “I care little for your opinion.”

“Listen, Stricklander,” Nomura tilts her head, “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came to talk to Dr. Lake about her son’s community service. Where is she?"

 _Yeah, right._ “Taking a shower.”

“Oh?” Nomura’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Getting dirty already, hmm?”

“She just finished a shift at the hospital.” He rolls his eyes and takes a step back. “I’ll let her know you stopped by. Have a good evening.”

“Wait!” Nomura kicks out and effectively stops Walter from slamming the door in her face. “Bular ordered me to take out the boy.”

“Tonight?”

“Well,” she concedes, “he didn’t specify a date or time.”

“Then wait until tomorrow,” Walter suggests forcefully, hackles raising unexpectedly at the thought of Nomura attacking Jim. “Or ambush him outside of Trollmarket. I could honestly care less where or how you do it, as long as you do it no where near _this house_ tonight.”

“Got some big plans for the doc, huh?” That insufferable smirk is back, and Walter forces himself not to claw it off her face. “Fine,” she says after a moment of intense eyebrow waggling. “But try not to think about me decapitating the kid when you’re banging his mommy tonight, okay?”

“Dear god, woman.” Walter’s lip curls. “Why are you always so vulgar?”

“Because _you_ are always so proper,” Nomura cackles as she removes her jammed foot. Oh, how she loves taunting him. “I’ll report in the morning. Give you some time to cuddle.”

“Good luck,” Walter sneers. “And do try to be discreet, yes? Keep it clean.”

“Sure.” Nomura shrugs noncommittally and sashays off the porch. “Whatever you say.”

He watches her disappear into the darkness before closing the door and carefully turning the deadbolt. He doesn’t actually believe Nomura will succeed in her attempt on the Trollhunter’s life – the boy has proven too fortuitous to just _die_ already – but her unexpected appearance does set him on edge. He _knows_ Nomura, knows what she’s capable of and her presence at Barbara’s home feels like a threat in of itself. A threat that has provoked an impulsion to protect within him that he hadn’t known existed before.

One that, oddly, extends to Jim.

Which is frustrating and confusing, and Walter could really use a glass of wine now.

He’s pouring his second when Barbara returns a little while later. Her hair is still damp and hanging loosely around her shoulders, and she’s changed into a set of black yoga pants and a blue t-shirt that says ‘I’m a doctor. What’s your superpower?’ on it. She’s comfortable and relaxed, and Walter doesn’t think she’s ever looked more beautiful.

“The, uh…” He tilts his head to watch appreciatively as she bends forward to open the oven. “The pizza should still be warm.”

“What kind did you get?” Barbara asks as she places the box on the counter and hip-checks the oven closed. “It smells amazing.”

“I went to the new pizzeria on Fourth. Their menu is actually rather...” He clears his throat when she reaches into one of the upper cabinets and unknowingly reveals a strip of creamy, toned midriff. “Impressive. But I, uh, just ordered pepperoni.”

“A classic.” Barbara grins as she places two plates on the counter and flips open the box. “And my personal favorite. Good job.”

“I aim to please.”

“I hope so.” She winks and loads three pieces of pizza onto a plate, while Walter, wide-eyed, sucks in a breath. “Is this for me?”

“What?”

“This glass? Is this one mine?” Barbara asks as her fingers curl around the stem of the wineglass on the counter. She knows it is though and, with an impish smirk, she plucks the glass off the counter and heads out of the kitchen with her dinner. “Don’t forget the bottle.”

Walter does as he’s told and tucks the wine under his arm before following her into the living room.

“I hope you don’t mind eating on the couch?” Barbara asks, suddenly sounding a bit self-conscious as Walter settles down beside her. “I just feel like kicking my feet up.”

“Understandable,” Walter says gently, pulling his plate onto his lap. Honestly, he could care less what or where they eat as long as she’s by his side. “Oh, I was hoping to ask you something. It may be a bit… presumptuous of me, but I just…” He frowns, clearly unimpressed with his own inability to articulate his thoughts. Again. “Well. The new season for the San Francisco Symphony has just started and I was hoping you would join me for a show later this month. We don’t have to stay overnight,” he flushes at the thought, “or I could secure separate hotel rooms if you’d feel more comfortable, but I… Um.”

“I’d love to go to the symphony with you.” Barbara smiles; a sweet, gentle smile that eases Walter’s embarrassment. “I just need to make sure I can get the weekend off. When do you want to go?”

“I have some business next weekend, but maybe the following?”

“Jim’s birthday,” Barbara says apologetically after swallowing a bite of pizza. “Can we do the first one in October?”

“I think we can make that work.” He takes a sip of wine. “I’ll look into tickets.”

“And a room?”

“And a room.” Walter tries to hide his grin behind his wineglass, but fails miserably and they lapse into a short, but companionable silence as they finish their food. After a while, he asks, “Do you have plans? For Jim’s birthday, that is.”

“Do birthday pancakes count?”

Walter laughs at the grimace on her face and leans back, sinking further into the comfort of the couch. “ _I_ think so, but I doubt a fifteen-year-old would.”

“Sixteen,” Barbara corrects. “He just missed the cutoff, so he’s one of the oldest in the class.”

Something in that statement resonates with Walter, though he’s not sure what it is and he can’t quite find it in himself to care anyway when Barbara’s fingertips trail along the side of his thigh as she slides back next to him. Instead, he hesitantly wraps one arm around her shoulders and then let’s out a relieved breath when she snuggles into him. “Have you thought about a gift? I always catch him reading those scooter magazines in class. Maybe some wheels for such a milestone?”

“I thought about it, but those things are so dangerous. I’ve had to stitch-up way too many Speed Racers to feel comfortable getting him something like that.” Barbara shakes her head. “Ugh. I’m so bad with these things. What did you get when you turned sixteen?”

A crossbow and his first kill as a human. “I don’t… remember. Didn’t you mention he likes to cook?” Walter asks, his voice somewhat higher than usual as he directs the conversation back to Jim. “Perhaps a new recipe book or an appliance of some sort?”

“He _was_ complaining about our ancient blender last week,” Barbara says, lips twisting in thought. She turns to Walter a moment later, grinning. “That’s a great idea. Thanks, Walt.”

“My pleasure, darling.”

Barbara quirks an eyebrow at the endearment. “Darling?”

“It’s an apt description,” he murmurs, eyes flitting to her lips as he slowly dips his chin forward. “Don’t you think?”

He kisses her – soft and sweet and so achingly perfect.

But not nearly enough.

Walter’s hands gently curl around the base of Barbara’s skull, thumbs caressing the corners of her mouth as his tongue traces languidly along her bottom lip. She responds with a soft moan and he takes full advantage of the opportunity by intensifying the kiss even further, his tongue darting forward to meet hers.

It feels so right, so entirely _natural_ to be with her like this and, not for the first time, Walter allows himself to wonder what could have been. If he’d just been less discouraged by her abandonment? Or more persistent in his attempt to contact her?

Good god, could they have been doing _this_ for the past sixteen years?

That notion encourages him to twist toward her and he brings one knee up onto the cushions as Barbara’s fingertips dig insistently into his shoulders, urging him forward and down. She manages to slip one leg under him as he lowers her back and hooks it around his waist.

“Is…” Walter breathes against her lips as he settles over her. “Is this okay?”

She bucks her hips against his, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Yeah, I think it’s just fine.”

He groans at the friction and when he kisses her again, it’s so satisfyingly deep and consuming that the footsteps on the front porch and the harshly whispered instructions to “wait here until I make sure the coast is clear” go completely unnoticed by either of them. It’s not until the deadbolt turns and the front door suddenly swings open that the arrival of a third person even pierces through the lust-filled haze.

They rear up as one, but the movement causes them to overbalance and they wind up tumbling over the edge of the couch in a tangle. Walter lands hard on his back with Barbara on top of him, her legs still hooked around his waist. She snorts into his shoulder, body shaking with suppressed giggles, and rolls off him just quick enough to avoid being seen by Jim.

“Mom?” Jim calls as he shuts the door and turns toward the living room. “Whose car is outside?”

“Jim, honey.” Barbara clears her throat as she uses the coffee table to hoist herself onto her feet. “Didn’t you tell me you were staying at Toby’s tonight?”

“I changed my mind,” Jim says slowly, suspiciously as he wanders into the living room. “Mr. Strickler? Why are you on the floor?”

“We were…” Barbara looks down at Walter and sucks her (kiss-swollen) bottom lip between her teeth. “He…“

“Was looking for my contact lens,” Walter supplies as he pulls himself onto his elbows.

Jim doesn’t look impressed at all. “On your back?”

“I thought it might be on...” Walter’s forehead wrinkles at his own flimsy excuse. “The underside of the, uh, sofa?”

“Right.” Jim rolls his eyes. “Because contacts bounce off carpet.”

“This one did. See?” Walter holds up his index finger for approximately a half-second and then pretends to place the ‘lens’ in his eye before Jim can call him on his bullshit. He blinks innocently up at the teenager. “Much better.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Mom.”

“Well,” Walter says, climbing to his feet, “I can _see_ that it’s time to go.”

“Pun intended?” Barbara asks, cocking her head as he slowly closes the distance between them.

“Oh, most certainly.” Walter nods and, ignoring the way Jim crosses his arms over his chest, gently crooks his index finger under her chin. “Are you available for lunch tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Barbara breathes. “Pick me up at noon?”

“Doctor’s orders,” he murmurs and places a light, chaste kiss on her lips before reluctantly pulling away. He clasps a hand on Jim’s shoulder as he passes the boy and admits, “It’s good to see you, young Atlas. Truly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it gets real in the next chapter, folks.


	4. I. To Catch A Changeling

He really should have known this was coming.

It was only a matter of time, after all – what with Nomura so carelessly revealing the continuing existence of changelings – but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared for a direct assault. And even less so when it happens in such a random fashion in such a public venue.

An airborne gaggle-tack.

While it’s not the most unusual projectile Walter has ever encountered, it is one of the most alarming and he eyes the offending hoofwear with a raised brow as an ever-helpful Claire Nunez scoops it off the ground for him. “Thank you, Miss Nunez,” he says evenly, masking his relief, in response to her attempt to hand it to him and gestures in Jim’s direction. “But that belongs to Mr. Lake.”

“Oh.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her tone as she heads toward Jim with the gaggle-tack. “Well, _that_ would explain the flying horseshoes.”

Jim lets out a nervous, uncertain chuckle before hesitantly reaching out for the gaggle-tack. He winces, Walter notices with surprise, when it touches his skin and immediately passes it off to Toby for safekeeping. An interesting reaction, he thinks as Jim gives his hand a slight shake and then reaches up to rub at his scalp with a strained look on his face.

Frowning, Walter tucks his hands behind his back and strolls past the trio, taking care to maintain a certain level of distance, as he requests over his shoulder, “A word, young Atlas.”

“I still think he’s one of them,” Toby mumbles the moment he thinks Walter is out of ear-shot. “That was all very suspicious.”

Claire arches an eyebrow. “One of who?”

“Nothing,” Jim answers with a fond, yet exasperated shake of his head. He offers an apologetic shrug before skipping forward to catch up to the history teacher. “I’ll see you later.”

“Hey!” Claire calls after him. “You’re still coming home with me, right?”

“Oh.” Jim stumbles as he turns and very nearly trips over his own two feet. “Yeah! Right, I am. I’m going home with you. To study. Math, stuff.”

Claire giggles. “Meet me by the bike-rack when you’re done with Strickler.”

“I will!” Jim grins, springing back around. He catches up quickly and falls into step with Walter, their strides perfectly in synch as they navigate the hallways of Arcadia High. “I’m sorry about that.”

“The – now how did Miss Nunez describe it – flying horseshoe?” Walter asks, eyebrows quirked with amusement as he turns into his classroom.

“Yeah,” Jim says slowly, smiling sheepishly as he follows his teacher into the room.

“Yes, well it seems I’m not the only one you should be apologizing to,” Walter lectures, and ducks behind his desk to pull open the bottom drawer. He’d been intending to return Barbara’s jacket – the one she’d left at his apartment when their first date had been so rudely interrupted by her son’s arrest – to her that evening, but he’d received intel regarding the Eye Stone and had been forced to cancel their date. “From what I understand,” he pulls out the jacket and straightens, “poor Mr. Palchuk has had more than one chucked at him today. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“I only threw it at him once,” Jim tells him seriously. “I swear.”

“I believe you.” Walter eyes Jim severely for a moment. “But please refrain from touching or flinging equine-wear at your peers from now on, hm?”

“Yes, sir.” Jim’s gaze drops to the floor at the scolding. “Is that all?”

“No,” Walter says and holds the jacket out over the desk for Jim to take. “I found this in my coat-closet this morning. Your mother left it at my apartment a few weeks ago and I was hoping you could take it to her.”

“Oh?” Jim looks up, suddenly interested, as he grabs the jacket. “Have you guys… like, stopped seeing each other?”

Walter snorts. “No. I just thought she’d like it back sooner rather than later.”

“So, you’re still taking her to San Francisco?” Jim asks hesitantly. He doesn’t look disappointed, per se, but his expression isn’t completely approving either.

“I was planning on it, yes.” Walter tilts his head in concern. Jim may be the Trollhunter, but he’s still Barbara’s son and he unwittingly craves the boy’s approval. “Does that bother you?”

“I guess not.” Jim shuffles his feet. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

Walter sighs. “Jim, I know this is an awkward situation we’ve put you in and I can understand your reluctance, but I do hope you know that I care for Barbara very much.”

“Look, I get it. Really, you don’t have to explain.” Jim’s nose wrinkles. “And it’s not that I don’t approve, or whatever. It’s just… It’s been me and my mom for a long time and it’s,” he nervously rubs his head with his fingertips, “weird. Like, I totally caught you two making out on the floor last week.”

“I can _guarantee_ you didn’t catch us ‘making out’ on the floor,” Walter says with a sly smirk. “But you’re right. I’ll try to be more considerate of your feelings in the future. Is there anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable?  Perhaps if Barbara and I spent more time at my home –“

“No!” Jim yelps immediately, shaking his head vehemently. It might be gross watching them get all googly-eyed over each other, but at least he can keep an eye on things at his house. Especially with a giant blue troll living in his basement.

“Then,” Walter hesitates a split-second, “what if _we_ spent more time with each other?”

He doesn’t think it’s an exceptionally grand idea, what with the teenager at the top of the honey-kill-list Bular has provided him, but, as the suggestion leaves his lips, he realizes he rather hopes Jim will agree. He was fond of the boy before he became the Trollhunter and, if he’s honest with himself, is still rather attached regardless of his political affiliation.

“Doing what?” Jim asks curiously.

“I… I don’t know,” Walter stumbles. “We could… Fish? Or, build something?”

Jim laughs. “Never tried bonding with a girlfriend’s kid before, huh?”

“I’m afraid not,” Walter admits with an embarrassed chuckle. “But there’s a first for everything.”

“Yeah.” Jim nods, smiling. “Let me think about it. Okay?”

“Of course,” Walters says, ducking his head in acceptance. They lapse into an awkward silence, neither one quite sure how to proceed, until Walter finally clears his throat. “I heard you have a date with Miss Nunez tonight. Is that right?”

Jim immediately blushes. “We’re just studying.”

“Still,” Walter continues lightly, “a step in the right direction, yes?”

“I hope so.” Jim shrugs and, yet again, reaches up to massage his scalp.

“Jim.” Walter frowns and he stands a bit taller to try to get a look at the top of the Trollhunter’s head. There hasn’t been a lice outbreak at the high school level in years, but the amount of scratching and rubbing Jim has done over the past few minutes is beginning to concern him. “Is your head alright?”

Jim blinks. “Mostly. I mean, I have been pretty stressed lately but I don’t think –“

“No,” Walter interrupts, and nods to where Jim is still scratching. “Your _head_?”

“Oh.” Jim’s eyes widen as he slowly lowers his arm. “Yeah, I think I’m having an allergic reaction or something.”

“To what?”

Jim shrugs. “I’m not sure. I haven’t eaten anything unusual.”

“Do you mind?” Walter asks, gesturing as he rounds the desk and steps up to Jim. “Tilt forward a bit, please.”

“There’s these bumps,” Jim mumbles, lowering his chin and pointing at a spot on either side of his head. “Two of them. See?”

Walter squints, but it’s impossible to visually determine the source of the teen’s discomfort. He leans in further and gently cards through Jim’s hair until his fingertips collide with a rather large lump. _That’s_ _odd_ , he thinks as he pushes the black locks away from the protrusion for a better look. “Do they…”

He trails off, green eyes widening in shock.

It’s a horn.

Or, more precisely, it’s the tell-tale swelling that immediately proceeds new horn growth.

But no, that’s not possible. Maybe he’s hallucinating? Or dreaming? Or maybe it really is just some sort of incredibly abnormal allergic reaction to…

Iron.

But that’s preposterous. Even if the gaggle-tack were to have activated some dormant changeling gene in Jim, it would mean one of his parents possessed changeling DNA and Walter knows for certain Barbara does not. Which would leave the boy’s father and James Lake was… not Jim’s biological father.

 _Oh no,_ Walter thinks, quickly calculating the timing in a panic. _Oh, for fuck’s sake!_

But it fits – how had he not realized it before? how had he missed all those overtly obvious signs? - it _all_ fits. That damned amulet didn’t choose a human to be its champion, it chose a half-changeling. His half-changeling. His son.

Walter jerks backward suddenly, heart thundering in his chest as Jim looks up in bewilderment.

“Is it that bad?” He asks quickly, wide-eyed. “Do I need to have my mom check it out?”

“No!” Walter yelps, and then desperately tries to regain his composure as the rush of blood echoes in his ears. “No, it’s… it’s not that bad. I was just surprised by how quickly the, uh, reaction set in. That’s all. I’ve heard of instances where allergies to certain types of… metals or other natural elements can cause such a reaction. I believe it can be genetic, actually.”

“Oh.” Jim frowns. “I don’t think my mom has any allergies.”

“No.” Walter’s accompanying chuckle is just shy of hysterical. “I assume it comes from your father’s side.”

“Maybe. I guess,” Jim says with a shrug and narrowed eyebrows. “Mr. Strickler, are you okay? You look like you’re about a second away from an anxiety attack.”

“No,” Walter croaks and then clears his throat. “I’m just fine. But you… you have a date.”

“Oh, man,” Jim groans and slaps himself on the forehead. “You’re right! I almost forgot about Claire.” He tucks Barbara’s jacket under his arm and starts toward the door, but stops just before exiting. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Walter assures him, though that’s a task easier said than done. He taps his watch. “’Lovers ever run before the clock.’”

“What?”

“Just go, young Atlas.”

Jim flashes him a smile, one that he now recognizes as his own, and scampers off. Walter takes a deep breath and slowly pulls his phone out of the breast-pocket of his jacket. His finger lingers over his contact list for a long, uncertain minute before tapping Barbara’s name.

“Hello, love. We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is much shorter than previous chapters and totally rushed, which I think shows... but I was just so excited to get it posted! 
> 
> "Lovers ever run before the clock." - Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice


	5. I. Adventures In Trollsitting

They decide to meet at their favorite café for breakfast.

It’s awkward – but a bit of awkwardness is understandable given the subject of their conversation the previous afternoon.

“To-go, I think?” Walter suggests softly as they step up to the counter. He’s not quite sure how to approach Barbara now that she’s confirmed Jim’s paternity, and her stiff refusal to meet his eye proves she’s just as uncertain as he is. The formality is stifling and he hopes they can remedy it soon.

She nods, and Walter orders the usual – two blueberry scones and two black coffees – before shuffling off to the side to await their order. He leans back against the wall and unintentionally holds his breath as he curls his pinkie finger around Barbara’s. Might as well _try_ to regain some of their previous affection, right?

“Walt.” She shakes her head and sighs, but doesn’t flinch away from his touch. “I…”

“It’s okay,” Walter murmurs hopefully and gives her pinkie a reassuring squeeze. “We’re okay.”

And he means it.

His name is called, and he collects their breakfast before stepping out of the café into the bright morning sunshine. They walk to his apartment slowly and silently, neither of them in a hurry to talk about the predicament they’ve found themselves in. Barbara is obviously steeling herself for heartache, but Walter intends to make it perfectly clear he has no desire to end things with her. He has questions – oh, so many questions – and he expects answers, but he’s got secrets too, after all.  

Secrets that are much, much worse than hers.

“How did your meeting go last night?” Barbara asks when the silence starts to become unbearable. Her eyes nervously flit to his profile before settling back on the sidewalk.

“My what?”

“Your meeting?” She could have sworn he cancelled their date prior to discovering the truth about Jim but with everything a bit of a jumble in her brain right now, maybe she’s wrong? “We were supposed to have a picnic in the park, but you cancelled for a last-minute meeting at the museum. Right?”

“Oh, yes. I apologize, my mind was elsewhere. The meeting was…” Stressful? Tense? Terrifying? He _did_ have to face Bular mere hours after learning he’d contributed a full fifty percent of the Trollhunter’s DNA. “Fine. Though one of my colleagues was killed.”

Barbara looks up sharply as he kicks open the door to his building for her. “Walt! Are you okay? Why didn’t you call…”

Her face falls and Walter quickly tries to backpedal, “It wasn’t… What I mean is, it was a shock, yes. But I didn’t care much for her anyway. There was no need for council, I swear.”

Which is all true. Gladys Groe would be missed by some, but not by him. She’d served her purpose years ago and her most recent pursuits had often led to a spike in paperwork he had not appreciated one bit. _Though_ , he thinks ruefully, _she was a damned good hygienist_.

“You’re sure?” Barbara asks, watching him skeptically as they arrive at his front door.

“Quite,” Walter confirms, and, as his hands are full of coffee and bagged scone, gestures to his trouser pocket with a nod. “A little help?”

Barbara quirks an eyebrow, but treats him with her first genuine smile of the morning. “You could just hand me the bag.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He asks, pouting and cocking his hip.

“Fine.” Barbara mutters, blue eyes glittering as she closes the gap between them and reaches into his pocket. She holds his gaze, another first this morning, and fishes about a little longer than necessary before actually retrieving the keys.

“It sticks, remember?” Walter reminds her. “You have to –“

She turns the key a quarter, jiggles it and turns it again. “I know. Maybe you should get that fixed.”

“But you’re so efficient with the lock,” he quips, turning to Barbara with a playful smirk he hopes isn’t too inappropriate given the circumstances. “Perhaps, I should just get a new key and let you have that one.”

They both freeze. Did he…

“Did you just offer me a key to your place?” Barbara asks, eyes wide. “With everything that’s going on?”

He hadn’t intended to and is just as shocked as she is, but he’s not going to renege on the proposal either. “Ah, well.” He shrugs. “I told you we’re okay, didn’t I?”

“Walt, I lied to you,” Barbara scoffs incredulously. “About having a _child_. I lied to you about having a child and you’re offering me a key to your apartment?”

“Darling,” Walter says softly, eyeing the open window at the end of the hallway warily. The last thing he needs is for one of Bular’s many minions to overhear their conversation and report it back to the boss. “I think we should discuss this inside. Don’t you?”

Barbara shakes her head, clearly unable to process his reaction and heads into the apartment. “I just don’t understand,” she says after Walter has awkwardly managed to close the door with his index finger. “You were panicking on the phone yesterday and today… Why aren’t you screaming at me? Or demanding answers?”

“There’s no point to it,” Walter says and sets their breakfast down on the coffee table. “Will arguing change anything?” He points at the keyring still dangling in her hand. “You can keep that key. I’m not ending it with you.”

“Why not?”

“Do you _want_ me to?”

“Of course not.”

“Then just accept that I want to stay with you.” Walter lets out a deep, exasperated sigh. “Listen. The way I see it, we can proceed one of two ways; we work through this together or we suffer heartbreak apart.” Barbara opens her mouth, but he holds up his hand to stop her before she can argue. “Don’t misunderstand. I _am_ upset and I’m very disappointed. But that doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

Barbara stares at him for a long moment before asking, “How _do_ you feel about me?”

“I just gave you a key to my apartment,” Walter snorts, eyebrows arching. “Granted, I can’t actually _give_ it to you until I’ve had a copy made and cleared out all the incriminating evidence.” He’s not joking about clearing out the incriminating evidence, but she doesn’t need to know that. Not right now at least. “And I must care for you a little. We do have a… a _son_ together.”

“Still feels a little weird saying it, huh?” Barbara smiles gently and, after a brief hesitation, makes her way to the couch to sit down. She pats the cushion next her.

“Very,” Walter admits as he sits. He sips his coffee, and takes a moment to enjoy the heat singeing his throat, then adds, “And I think now might be a good time for you to explain why I had to discover we have a son on my own. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to,” Barbara tells him earnestly. “Really, I did. But how do you even start that conversation?” She rolls her eyes and adopts a mocking lilt, “Thanks for dinner, babe. Oh yeah. I gave birth to your child sixteen years ago. We should go grab some ice cream.”

Walter chokes on his coffee. “I uh… I can see how that may have been difficult for you.” He coughs. “But I was thinking more along the lines of, why didn’t you tell me when you first realized you were pregnant?”

“Oh. Well, that’s… I tried to.” Barbara frowns and leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “It actually took _weeks_ for me to work up the courage to tell you and when I finally went to your office, you were gone. I checked with administration, but the girl told me the university’s privacy policy wouldn’t allow them to give me your personal contact information. I tried your school email, but it kept coming back undeliverable. I even checked James’ phone to see if he still had your number.”

Walter snorts. “Did you look under ‘asshole’?”

“I didn’t think to. Not at the time.” Barbara glances back at him and then resumes staring at the coffee cup in front of her. “One afternoon, I just got so frustrated and so hormonal and I just… lost it. Couldn’t hold it together anymore, you know?”

He does, and it breaks his heart to know her emotional breakdown was his fault. If he’d just taught out that semester instead of heading off to Greece early, this whole mess would have been avoided and maybe… Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. What’s done is done and there’s no use dwelling on it now.

She sighs. “I worked _so_ hard to get into a med-school with such a prestigious reputation and there I was, knocked up by a professor two semesters in. I thought my career, my _life_ , was over before it had even started.”

“Barbara, you don’t –“

“I want you to know, Walt,” Barbara interrupts with a quirked eyebrow as she grabs her cup of coffee and settles back into the couch. She takes a small sip before continuing. “When James assumed he was the father, I went with it. He was familiar, _safe_. He made sense. And I think I wanted Jim to be his so bad that I started believing it myself.”

“Denial is _not_ just a river in Egypt,” Walter agrees, grinning lopsidedly when Barbara laughs and reaches for his hand.

“No, it’s not.” She laces her fingers with his and takes another sip of coffee. “I like to believe I would have done things differently if I’d just had some time to really wrap my head around what was happening, but…” She lets out a deep breath and twists her neck to face him. “I don’t know if I would have. Does that make me a terrible person?”

“It makes you human,” Walter murmurs sympathetically, though he doesn’t think he really know what that feels like. “A young, scared human.”

“He had a huge head, by the way.”

“What?”

“Jim.” Barbara grimaces. “Huge head, skinny little body. Twenty-two inches long.” She bumps Walter’s shoulder with hers. “Full head of hair. But don’t worry. It was a pretty easy birth so I didn’t have to curse your existence.”

“Oh, thank god.” He smirks at her. “I was _so_ worried.”

They fall into a short silence, drinking their coffee as both of them try to digest what they’ve just discussed, until Walter finally asks, “Was he a good dad? James?”

“For a long time, yeah,” Barbara says and squeezes his hand. “But I think he always had his doubts. He was good with Jim, but he never really _connected_ with him. And when he started seeing that woman… Well. I don’t know for certain, but I’m sure he confided in her and she encouraged him to confront me.”

“Confront you?” Walter asks, frowning.

“It wasn’t nearly as dramatic as it sounds.” Barbara shrugs. “I told him the truth and he left.”

He’s sure it _was_ as dramatic as it sounds and there’s more to that particular story, but Walter doesn’t push. “Did you ever try to find me after he left?”

Barbara’s brow wrinkles, but her gaze is steady and strong when she says, “No.”

 _That_ , he believes. “And you weren’t the least bit curious when you saw my name on Jim’s class schedule?”

“It said W. Strickler. You could have been a Wanda or a Wendy for all I knew.” Barbara flashes him a pointed look. “What about you? James Lake Junior? You didn’t make the connection?”

“James was never very high on my list of priorities,” Walter tells her dryly. “Perhaps, if you’d called him Walter…”

Barbara laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next one.”

For the second time that morning, Walter chokes on his coffee. It’s a tad bit more violent this time, however, and he surges forward, gasping, to dump his cup on the table and hack against his forearm.

“Walt! Are you…” Barbara moves to him, her palm pressing against Walter’s back as he tries to catch his breath. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he croaks, sitting up with his hand on his chest. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.”

“Oh, shit. This is so… I didn’t mean it like that,” Barbara groans, face burning. “That was… It wasn’t…”

“And here,” Walter wheezes, “I thought I might be moving too quickly by giving you a key.”

“That was an accidental offer,” Barbara says knowingly as she helps him sit back. “And I _don’t_ want to have more babies with you. I didn’t… That came out wrong.”

“Pity,” Walter pouts and chokes back a cough. “We make such beautiful children.”

The sarcastic retort Barbara is gearing up for instantly dies on her lips. “That we do.” She sighs as she pulls her knees to her chest and turns her body toward him. “I want to tell Jim.”

“I… do too.” Walter nods, not nearly as surprised by the rush of eagerness as he thinks he should be. “Yes. But can we hold off a bit? I’d just… like to have some time to think first.”

Barbara nibbles on her lower lip and drops her eyes to his chest. “What if he doesn’t respond well?  Six months ago I’m sure he would have been over the moon, but he’s been so different lately. I can’t predict how he’ll react.”

Walter only hums in response as he reaches out to palm Barbara’s shoulder. She lets him guide her into a new, more comforting position – nestled into his side with his arm wrapped protectively around her – and sighs contentedly when he drops a gentle kiss onto her crown.

It’s then, as he nuzzles her hair with his nose and laces his fingers through hers, that he realizes where his loyalties truly lie.

Where they’ve been for the last sixteen years.

Because meeting Barbara at that bar had been a turning point in his life. It had been decades since a bridge piece had been recovered and Bular was holding him personally responsible for the stagnation. His human life, while much less hazardous, had become boring, an exasperating existence filled to the brim with bothersome idiots.

And then Barbara had breezed into Ted’s on Taco Tuesday and breathed new life into him.

He’s got a chance now. A very real chance to be happy, to be free from Gumar’s tyranny and to truly forge his own path. And damnit, he intends to grab that chance with both hands and hold tight.

“Walt, honey?” Barbara’s voice suddenly breaks through his thoughts. He looks down to find her peeking up at him. “Don’t you need to get to school?”

“I called in,” Walter responds with an unconcerned shrug. “Seemed like a good time to use a Personal Day.”

Barbara sits up and forward, her shoulders turning to Walter as an anticipatory smirk curls her lips. “So… What you’re saying, is we have the whole day to ourselves?”

It takes a brief moment for the realization of what she’s saying to dawn upon him, before he’s pulling her forward and onto his lap.

They aren’t interrupted this time.


	6. I. Bittersweet Sixteen

The morning rendezvous with Bular is terrifying.

The great beast, in yet another shining example of his continued ignorance and utter contempt for anything that doesn’t employ brute force, has intentionally set loose a stalkling – a stalkling that has been programmed to relentlessly hunt and slaughter the Trollhunter.

To relentlessly hunt and slaughter _Jim_.

Walter inhales sharply, heart constricting painfully in his chest as he helplessly watches the murderous animal loop around the small clearing before swooping out of sight. His fingertips feel numb as he turns back to Bular, and it’s only the centuries of practiced indifference that keeps his inner turmoil from completely bubbling to the surface. Or so he thinks.

“Something wrong, Stricklander?” Bular baits coldly and carefully observes his subordinate’s reaction. “Do you not wish to see the Trollhunter dead?”

“You know I do,” Walter hisses, lying through his teeth as his eyes flash crimson and gold. His hands instinctively curl into fists at his sides and he thrusts his chest forward, his anger and resentment toward the hulking troll almost palpable as he raises his chin aggressively. “I do not, however, agree with your rash methods. This is a gross breach of protocol. Your father –“

“Grows tired of your delays,” Bular interrupts with a low, menacing growl. A calculating smirk curls his upper lip as he stares down the changeling with interest. Stricklander has always shown hints of defiance, but this… This open hostility is something new altogether. “As do I.”

Walter blinks, and takes a step backward into the sunlight. He’s letting his emotions get the better of him, letting the surge of paternal concern guide his actions and crack his usually unrivaled composure. He takes a deep breath to calm himself and tries to adopt a less combative stance, before asking stiffly, “Is that all?”

“For now.”

Bular’s parting words hang in the air, ominous and threatening, as he retreats into the shadowed sewers. Walter stares at the inky blackness until his erratic heartbeat steadies and then jogs out of the clearing, a plan already taking shape in his mind. He’s got a handful of books in his classroom that could prove useful, so he’ll stop there on his way to the Janus Order archives.

After all, there _has_ to be a way to redirect the stalkling’s attention and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find it.

There isn’t, Walter concedes when he slumps onto his couch that evening. Eight hours. Eight solid hours of scouring the archives for something – _anything_ – helpful and he’s come up completely empty.

The problem is not a lack of information. Oh, no. There are dozens of books that detail how to train stalklings, how to hunt stalklings, how to breed stalklings, how to… Well, the list goes on and on. But there was not a single sentence in any of them regarding the possibility of deferring a stalkling’s focus once its victim has been selected. In fact, all of the authors had agreed death – of the stalkling or the prey – to be the only viable solution.

 _Is this really what it’s like to be a parent?_ Walter wonders despairingly as concern continues to churn his stomach. _I’ve been his father a week and Jim’s already giving me an ulcer._

At least he won’t have to worry about the stalkling tonight, as Jim should be properly accompanied by someone until Barbara leaves for work in the morning. But what if he’s still asleep when she leaves? What if he’s left alone and completely unaware? Maybe Barbara will let Walter stop by later? He could take a bottle of wine and conveniently ‘drink’ too much to drive home. The idea does have merit.

And wouldn’t that be something? To celebrate Jim’s Sweet Sixteen, to sing Happy Birthday to his son for the first time and watch the boy make a wish as he blows out the candles on his cake; or to fall asleep with Barbara tucked against him, waking her with soft kisses along her jaw as the bedroom gleams with the first rays of morning sunshine...

His cell suddenly chirps.

Walter tilts his chin downward and flips the phone over in his hand to glance at the screen. His anxiety immediately begins to give way to warmth as Barbara’s face flashes up at him, and he quickly answers with a murmured, “Hello, dear.”

“Walt, hey.”

“Taking a break from celebrating to flirt with the birthday boy’s father?” The corners of his lips quirk upward. “How very naughty of you.”

Barbara lets out a breathy chuckle, but it doesn’t sound quite as amused as he’d hoped. “It _would_ be, if I were taking a break from the birthday boy.”

“You’re not?” Walter asks, smile faltering as he sits straight up. “Is… is everything alright?”

“Not really.” She’s obviously upset, but he’s sure there would be more than just a tinge of disappointment to her tone if something had _actually_ happened. “I got suckered into extending my shift. Some kid crashed his Vespa into a tree. He’s fine. Just a few bumps and bruises, but you’d think he lost a limb with the way he’s been carrying on.”

“Sounds like a typical over-dramatic teenager,” Walter agrees tentatively. “But why are you staying? Can’t someone else take care of his discharge?”

“Technically, yes,” Barbara concedes hesitantly. “But I want to speak with his mother. I think… Well, there’s evidence of past physical abuse.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, I feel terrible about ditching Jim on his birthday. Again.” She sighs. “He sounded so upset when I told him I couldn’t pick him up from rehearsal.”

That’s… Quite worrisome, actually. “How _is_ Jim getting home from rehearsal then? Is Toby with him? Or Claire, perhaps?”

“Toby isn’t in the play.” Barbara pauses, thinking. “He might try to catch a ride with Claire’s parents, though. If not, he’s got his bike.”

Very worrisome.

“He’s biking home? By himself?” Walter bolts to his feet, his head swiveling from side to side as he frantically searches for his keys. “From school?”

“That _is_ where rehearsals are held. Hold on, Walt.” Walter jams his feet into a pair of shoes as Barbara consults tersely with someone at the hospital, “Seriously, Joey? Doctor Lewis can’t handle it? Yeah, okay.” Another sigh. “Babe, I have to go. I’ll text you when I get off, okay?”

“Sure,” Walter mutters, though he’s not really listening and is more focused on finding his _goddamned keys_. “Ta, love.”

He ends the call and skids into the kitchen, realizing absently that his trousers are tinkling and his keys have been in his pocket the whole time. He turns on his heel with a frustrated growl, trips over his own shoelaces, and stumbles into the doorframe.

“Shit,” he hisses, pulling back to massage his now-throbbing shoulder. Of all the times to tweak his weak arm!

He allows himself a brief moment to knead away the pain before stooping down to tie his shoes... that don’t match. Walter blinks, and contemplates changing one of them but a cursory scan of the hallway fails to yield a match for either. No time to worry about it now, though. And as soon as he manages a somewhat decent knot, he’s darting out of the apartment.

Halfway down the stairs, he thinks to lock his front door and has to sprint back up. He could leave it, but he hasn’t cleared out _all_ of the dangerous relics yet – even with Barbara having chosen to nap at his place between shifts once or twice already – and it could cause a bit of unwanted pandemonium should certain items fall into unqualified hands. Or, worse, qualified hands.

He finally slides into his car a few minutes later, and stomps on the gas the second the engine revs to life. It typically takes ten minutes to get from his apartment to the high school, but Walter manages to make it in seven. There are no cars in the parking lot or bicycles chained to the rack and the grounds are eerily quiet – with a sinking feeling, the changeling realizes he’s missed Jim.

 _Which way would he go?_ Walter asks himself, jaw clenching as he tries to determine which path Jim would take. The quickest, obviously. But would Jim think to cut through the woods? Would he know it’s difficult for stalklings to navigate heavily wooded areas because of their wide wingspan? No, probably not. Really, the only reason Walter knows that helpful tidbit is because of his own aerial limitations.

But he _should_ know not to go home to an empty house. That is, assuming he’s done at least a _little_ research about the apex predator currently hunting him.

“Trollmarket,” Walter breathes with a resolute nod. Yes, it makes sense that Jim would go there. It’s much closer to the school than the house is, and he could easily enlist any number of chaperones to see him home.

He takes a moment to mentally map the streets of Arcadia and plan his route before swerving out of the parking lot. He takes a right on First Street, noting distractedly how unusually desolate the main thoroughfare is for a Saturday evening, and then turns abruptly onto Canal just as a bolt of lighting cuts across his vision, prompting his gaze to turn skyward.

His stomach drops.

There, silhouetted against the gathering storm clouds, is the massive stalkling.

It’s circling something, Walter realizes and drops his eyes to the road in front of him, searching desperately for any sign of Jim. _Ah! There he is_ , he thinks in relief as the boy comes into view. If he can just get to him before the stalkling dives…

No, too late.

Walter slams his foot on the break and jerks the car into park. He hurtles outside, a burst of green light enveloping him as he launches himself immediately into the air. It would be impossible to catch the stalking should it take off, but luck is mercifully on his side and the predator has decided to play with its prey before devouring it.

Which gives them a slim, but fighting chance.

The sky flashes blue and Walter’s heart nearly jumps into his throat when the stalkling suddenly drops Jim. He races forward, pushing his seldom-used wings to the limit but isn’t quick enough to get to Jim before the creature recaptures him. He’s close though – very close – and he only needs one good opening to steal the boy away and make a run for it.

That is, he realizes in a panic as they continue to climb higher and higher, if his son doesn’t suffocate first.

But Jim isn’t going down without a fight and Walter watches helplessly as the Trollhunter wiggles out of the stalkling’s grasp, raises Daylight, and is struck by millions of volts of electricity.

“No!”

The boy and the beast seize, seemingly suspended midair, as the currents course through them. Walter shoots forward and miraculously snatches Jim under the armpits as the stalkling tumbles past, its flesh turning to solid stone. He spares it a fleeting, vindicated grimace before refocusing his attention on the semi-conscious teenager.

“Trollhunter,” Walter grunts, adjusting his grip by tucking one arm under Jim’s knees and the other around his back. Jim’s head lulls to the side and the changeling jerks his elbow up to support his neck as he cradles him tightly against his chest. “Trollhunter, wake up.”

“Wha…” Jim’s eyelashes flutter. “Is… it –“  

“The stalkling is dead,” Walter tells him gruffly, and slowly begins to descend. “You’re safe now.”

Jim blinks sluggishly. “Who… are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You,” he takes a deep, exhausted breath, “saved me?”

Walter doesn’t respond – _can’t_ respond, as the panic and the dread and the absolute terror he’s managed to keep under control all day threatens to overcome him. He should feel elated right now, or at least relieved. But he doesn’t. He’s anxious and fearful and… Damnit, this is only one in a series of near-death experiences his son has been put through.

Some of which, he helped orchestrate!

“I, uh, haven’t seen you in Trollmarket,” Jim says slowly, trying to piece together the words without slurring. “I didn’t know… regular trolls can fly.”

Again, Walter refuses to answer.

“What’s your name?”

“I said,” Walter growls harshly, “it doesn’t matter.”

Jim frowns, but ceases his questioning until they finally settle back onto the ground. He’s set down, and his rescuer keeps ahold of his bicep until he can sufficiently regain his footing. Toby and Aaarrrgghh are shouting in the distance, but Jim’s attention is firmly fixed on the jade-colored troll standing before him. “You saved my life,” he says quietly, his tone shaky but grateful. “There has to be some way to thank you.”

“Just,” Walter swallows heavily, trying to maintain his composure a little longer, “try to stay out of danger, yes? Your parents… They would be heartbroken if anything were to happen to you.”

Jim’s forehead creases. There’s something so genuine and so fragile in the troll’s words, and they resonate with him in a way Jim can’t quite understand. _Must have been the near-death experience,_ he thinks as the troll gives him a gentle, unexpectedly affectionate pat on the cheek. “Well,” he says, watching the troll’s wings unfurl behind him. “Thanks. Really.”

His father nods, and shoots into the sky without a downward glance.


	7. I. Young Atlas

It’s true – time really does fly when you’re having fun.

But when you couple the fun with an overwhelming sense of dread, time seems to hurtle forward lightning-fast without even the slightest tap on the breaks. A phenomena Walter becomes very well acquainted with in the weeks following Jim’s not-so-sweet sixteenth birthday.

The ups have been amazingly high, but the downs... Well, the downs have been agonizingly low.

Which is why he’s currently got his forehead pressed against his tiled shower-surround, the edges of the porcelain squares digging irritably into his skin. The water is so hot it’s nearly unbearable, but it’s a welcome relief to his aching muscles and the steam is beginning to do wonders for his anxiety.  

This evening’s encounter with Bular had not gone well.

Not that _any_ of his encounters with Bular have gone well recently. There was the meeting two weeks ago that had ended with a mild concussion and the one on Tuesday that had resulted in a couple of bruised ribs, and he’s quite sure the prints left behind tonight will be a dark violet by morning. The violence is typical, however. Expected even. And the physical pain isn’t what has him taking deep, gulping breaths every few minutes to calm himself.

_“I called him Young Atlas… You should have seen his face.”_

Walter’s fingers flex against the wet tile. _Fuck_ , he thinks miserably and screws his eyes shut tight.

He’s been trying so hard to develop a genuine relationship with Jim, one that can withstand the inevitable shock of learning who (and later, _what_ ) his biological father really is. There have been tutoring sessions and movie nights and a bake-off that had resulted in enough treats to fill a small neighborhood shop – and just as Walter is beginning to think this could actually work out, Bular destroys all the progress he’s made with two simple words.

Young Atlas.

Sweet Pale Lady, how is he supposed to face the boy now? How can he dare to look his son in the eye after deceiving him so completely? He’s been ruthlessly baiting and betraying people for centuries, but it’s never felt like _this_ before. The regret simmering in his stomach, the guilt clenching at his heart… Is this what shame feels like?

Walter’s eyes flutter open.

Why didn’t he _talk_ to Jim? If he’d just explained the situation on his own terms! But he’d been too nervous, too cowardly, to approach the boy and now any attempt to offer assistance will surely be met with suspicion. Maybe even outright disgust.

 _To hell with Bular._ Walter’s hands curl into fists. _To hell with Gunmar and his test._

He pulls away from the wall, suddenly angry. He’s a changeling, damnit, and changelings don’t wallow. They adapt. They scheme and strategize, and execute plans accordingly. They manipulate circumstances to suit their own agendas and they systematically achieve their goals.

They do _not_ wallow.

 _Later_ , he thinks, referring to the emotions still churning in his gut. He’ll deal with all of _those_ later, when he has time to really sort through what he’s feeling. But right now, he needs to get his head in the game – needs to organize his thoughts and try to look at the situation objectively if he has any chance of salvaging his relationship with Jim.

And the first step is getting out this shower.

He reluctantly turns off the hot, relaxing water and reaches around the curtain in search of a towel. The first one he snags is Barbara’s favorite – a fluffy green swathe that leaves behind more lint in his dryer than he ever thought possible – and he replaces it on the hook with a soft smile despite his foul mood. His second try is more successful, and within minutes he’s dry and securing his own towel around his waist when he realizes he’s not alone.

Walter stops in the doorway leading into his bedroom, and quirks an appreciative eyebrow. His throat is still raw from Bular’s latest attack and his voice sounds much rougher than usual, but he manages a light tone when he says, “I thought you were working tonight.”

“Scheduling error,” Barbara responds, and even though her back – bare and elegant and deliciously creamy – is to him, he knows she’s smiling as she pulls on one of his old Oxford t-shirts. “Doctor Lewis showed up for the same shift and he’s absolutely terrible at Rock, Paper, Scissors.”

“Flawless victory, eh?”

“Well, it’s hard to lose when your opponent always chooses…” Barbara trails off as she turns, her grin giving way to a look of concern as her attention is immediately drawn to the bruises littering Walter’s neck and torso. “Walt, what happened to you?”

Shit.

“Hmm?” Walter hums, feigning ignorance as she nods pointedly at his injuries. “Oh. These? Nothing. Just a little… Accident.”

“Those are not accidental,” Barbara huffs as she crosses the room to assess the extent of his injuries. “Who did this to you?”

“Would you believe I participate in Friday Night Fight Club?”

Barbara arches an eyebrow, completely unimpressed with his attempt at humor, and gently prods the bruises along his abdomen. “These are severe, Walt.”

“I’m fine.” He takes a step back, away from her probing fingers. “Really. I’ve had much worse.”

Wrong answer.

“What happened?” Barbara asks, her hands coming to a rest of her hips as she straightens. She’s got that very focused, very fierce look about her now that reminds Walter of an annoyed, yet entirely protective mother bear. “Does this have something to do with whatever it is you do at the museum?”

“The museum?” He takes another step back. “How did you…”

“I’m not stupid. I know you’re doing something more than just volunteer work over there,” Barbara admits softly and takes a tentative step toward him. “Listen, I get it. There are parts of your life you aren’t comfortable sharing with me yet. I’m okay with that, and I’m okay with you taking your time.”

“I do want to, though. I do. I want to share everything with you,” Walter says after a moment’s hesitation, his tone earnest and sincere as a sudden rush of gratitude and admiration courses through him. No one – _no one_ – has ever trusted him so openly or so willingly before and the realization is nearly overwhelming. “And I will, love. I swear it.”

“Everyone has secrets, Walter.” Barbara shrugs before closing the gap between them and carefully avoids the worst of his bruising as she loops her arms around his upper torso. “God knows I’ve kept a whopper or two.”

“Or two?” Walter eyes her with mock severity. He leans forward to rest his triceps on Barbara’s shoulders and secures his hold by clasping one hand on the opposite forearm. “Please tell me Jim doesn’t have a twin running around somewhere.”

“She attends a British boarding school,” Barbara deadpans, blue eyes glinting mischievously as she looks up at him. “And has massive daddy issues.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Don’t worry, we only have the one illegitimate child,” Barbara breathes as Walter nuzzles her jawline. Her eyes flutter shut as the nuzzling turns to soft, tender kisses. “Walt, babe?”

“Mmm.”

“You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”

“Illegal?” Walter asks, pulling away from her sensitive neck with a frown. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s just something Jim said earlier.” She shrugs, but the nonchalance feels forced. “He called right after I got to the hospital for my shift and he was really… agitated?”

Walter stiffens. “Agitated?”

“Yeah.” Barbara frowns as she recalls her earlier conversation with their son. “He was checking to see if he could stay at Toby’s, but told me he wanted to make sure we weren’t getting together tonight first. He said… Well, he said he thinks we should stop seeing each other.”

“What?”

She nods, and nibbles her bottom lip for a quick second. “He told me you’re not who I think you are. I thought he was joking at first, and then I thought he was having some teen-sized temper tantrum because we’re moving too fast.”

“ _Are_ we moving too fast?”

“Absolutely not,” Barbara reassures him with a gentle squeeze and an admonishing smile. “We’re moving at just the right speed.”

Walter grimaces. “But you’re beginning to think Jim may have been onto something, aren’t you?”

“No. And yes.” Barbara shrugs and drops her gaze to the fresh bruises blooming along his neck. “I knew _something_ was going on at the museum, but I just figured you were secretly into Fantasy Football or online gambling or… D &D, you know? I never suspected you were doing something dangerous.”

“Until our son tells you I’m not who you think I am,” Walter murmurs, and his whole body seems to sigh as his shoulders sag forward. “And you show up here, only to find me looking like I’ve been knocked about by James Figg himself.”

“I don’t know who that is, but I’m guessing you’re alluding to all of this,” Barbara says slowly and with a hint of confusion, as she pulls back from him just enough to gesture at the vast bruising. “So, yes.”

“It’s not…” Walter, at a loss for words, just shakes his head. It’s impossible to explain without _explaining_ , but he knows he owes her some sort of truthful answer. “Well, no. It is dangerous. I really _have_ been injured much worse before and it will probably happen again. Sooner than later, if I’d care to wager.”

“Okay.” Barbara blinks, trying to process this newfound information and the straightforward, detached way in which it was given to her. “But why does Jim know about it?”

“Hearsay?” It’s not quite a lie, but it’s not really the truth either. “I think you’ll have to ask him that, Barbara. All I can say is, he doesn’t have all the facts and whatever he’s been told has doubtlessly been skewed out of my favor.”

“I don’t think I’m satisfied with that answer.”

“I don’t think you should be,” Walter admits quietly. “But it’s the only one I can give you right now.”

Barbara takes a deep breath and slowly untangles herself from him. “Maybe… I should stay at my place tonight.”

Walter’s face falls, but he nods his acceptance anyway. Her need to think, to be alone in order to process everything she’s just learned is understandable and he’s more than willing to give her the space she needs. Even if the thought of spending the night without her curled around him is rather distressing given his current emotional status.

“Unless.” Barbara stops walking toward her pile of worn scrubs and turns back to him, her lips pursed thoughtfully as she taps her chin. “You can give me a reason to stay?”

“Oh, darling.” Walter quirks a brow and reaches a hand out to pull her back against him, her crown tucked under his chin. “I can certainly think of one or two. But, perhaps, a stiff drink first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know... it's short and ends rather abruptly. but i think trying to edit or make it longer would have just ended in frustration. plus, i wanted to get this done before the new year. 
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR!


	8. I. Recipe For Disaster

In retrospect, accepting an invitation for a ‘family dinner’ so soon after Jim’s discovery of his true identity may not have been the best idea.

Sneaking away between courses probably hadn’t been either, but then Walter didn’t really expect a few stolen kisses to turn into a languid make-out session against the kitchen counter. And he _certainly_ hadn’t expected his already-incensed teenaged son to interrupt said clandestine rendezvous. But as he flinches back abruptly from the kiss and the sound of the door slamming shut continues to echo through the kitchen, he really should have known something like this was bound to happen.

“Please tell me that was just the wind,” Walter murmurs, frowning down at Barbara in concern as she stares intently over his shoulder at the point of Jim’s exaggerated exit.

“Ugh, I wish I could,” Barbara groans and tilts her chin upward. “God, Walt. I’m so sorry I dragged you over here for this. The whole night has been an absolute disaster.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it an absolute disaster.” He flashes her a faint, sympathetic smile before pressing his lips against her forehead. “The last five minutes or so were quite enjoyable.”

Barbara chuckles, and gives Walter’s backside a gentle squeeze. “Agreed. I just really didn’t expect him to be so… mean to you.”

“He was rather hostile, wasn’t he? I really thought he was going to fling that pepper shaker at me for a moment,” Walter admits as he gently tucks an errant lock of auburn hair behind Barbara’s ear. “Honestly, though? I expected it to be worse.”

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t,” she huffs, her frustration with Jim’s deteriorating behavior palpable. “His attitude sucks and I’m tired of it.”

“He’ll come around, love.”

“Maybe.” Barbara sighs and tightens her hold around Walter’s waist. “But what if he doesn’t? We can’t tell him you’re his biological father. Not when he can barely look at you without snarling something rude under his breath.”

Walter shifts back, stung. “You don’t want to tell him?”

“Walt, no. That’s not what I meant.” She pulls a hand out of his trouser pocket and reaches up to palm his jaw. “I _want_ to tell him. More than anything, I do. But not like this. Not when he’s acting like you’re some sort of monster.”

She’s right, of course. The boy hates – no, _loathes_ – him at this point and any attempt to explain his lineage is sure to be received poorly. He needs to clear the air first, needs to convince Jim that they’re on the same side if there’s to be any chance of a positive resolution.

“Let me talk to him,” Walter suggests, and immediately begins to defend the idea when Barbara opens her mouth to argue with him. “I know I told you he wasn’t willing to listen when I approached him at school, but this is his home. This is where he’s most comfortable. And if I can’t get him to talk to me here…”

He trails off with a shrug, letting the words hang ominously in the air until Barbara finally nods. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll just be in here…” She hmm’s and pulls away from Walter’s embrace to glance around the kitchen, searching for something to keep her occupied while he attempts his first heart-to-heart with their son. “Making dessert?”

“You are going to make dessert?” Walter asks, quirking an eyebrow skeptically.

“I think we have all the ingredients for chocolate pie,” Barbara says thoughtfully, and yanks open the refrigerator to rummage around. “There’s a premade piecrust in the freezer and I think – Ah!” She turns and hip-checks the fridge closed while simultaneously thrusting a can of whipped cream and a six-pack of chocolate-and-vanilla pudding cups into the air for him to see. “Look!”

Walter warily eyes the pudding cups, but wisely chooses to keep his mouth shut on the subject. “Would you like me to preheat the oven for you?”

“Why?”

“To bake the piecrust.”

Barbara blinks. “It’s not already cooked?”

“Ah, no.”

“Well.” Barbara purses her lips, her forehead puckering as she contemplates her next move. “In that case, I… will read the directions on the package. Very carefully.”

“A wise decision, dear.” Walter nods sagely and kisses her affectionately on the cheek, before squaring his shoulders toward the door. “Wish me luck?”

Barbara shoots him a weak, but encouraging smile. “All of it.”

Walter nods and tugs at his jacket lapels, then pushes into the dining room and into a situation that could easily turn into a knife-fight with his own child. _No_ , he thinks as Jim – hunched over, palms flat on the table with a scowl on his upturned face – comes into view. _No, I won’t let it go that far._

“You can’t keep your hands off my mom for five minutes, can you?” Jim hisses menacingly the moment the door closes. “It isn’t enough that you’re screwing around with her emotions, but to use her like that just to get to me is disgusting. Even for a changeling.”

Or maybe he will let it go that far.

“First of all, my relationship with Barbara has _nothing_ to do with you becoming the Trollhunter. We care for each other and I would have pursued her whether you carried the title or not,” Walter drawls coldly, eyes flashing furiously at Jim’s accusations. “Second, do not _ever_ suggest I would take advantage of your mother’s feelings for mere physical gratification again. This is between you and me, so keep her out of it. Do you understand?”

Jim’s eyebrows narrow, but he finally concedes, “Yes.”

 “Good.”

“You didn’t deny you’re a changeling.” Jim straightens to his full height and puffs out his chest as Walter steps up to the opposite side of the table. His fingers twitch toward his pocket, but he manages to remain still. No use playing the amulet card quite yet.

“Because I _am_ a changeling,” Walter admits without hesitation. “There’s no use denying it when I intend to be completely honest with you.”

“Ha!” Jim rolls his eyes. “An honest changeling? Yeah, right.”

“I see discrimination against our kind still runs rampant through the streets of Trollmarket.” Walter tilts his head and sneers. “I didn’t choose to be made this way, Young Atlas.”

“Maybe not,” Jim scoffs. “But you did _choose_ to serve Gunmar.”

“Serving Gunmar is not a choice. It’s how we’ve survived,” Walter corrects forcefully, leaning forward. “Your friend Aaarrrgghh may have successfully defected, but desertion is a death sentence for our kind. We’ve nowhere to go, no one to help us. Changelings who betray Gunmar are hunted down and slaughtered. This is a centuries-old war, Trollhunter. One you obviously know very little about.”

“I know enough.”

“You know what they’ve told you. You know what they _want_ you to think. But you don’t know the whole story. You don’t know what they’ve put _us_ through. You don’t know why…” Walter stops and takes a deep breath. He’s working himself up, letting his emotions get the better of him yet again and he must remain calm if he wants to get through to Jim. “How many times have I told you that history is written by the victors?”

“If you’re trying to get me to feel sorry for –“

“I’m not. I just want you to understand.”

“Understand _what_?” Jim asks, throwing his hands up in exasperation when he fails to elaborate. He’s had enough – of the pretending, of the lies, of the heartbreak caused by the man’s betrayal. “That you’re a liar? That you tricked me into thinking you actually cared about me? That you made me think we could be…” His eyebrows narrow just before a flash of blue light surrounds him. When the haze dissipates, Jim has Daylight drawn and pointed challengingly at Walter. “You won’t fool me again.”

“Young Atlas –“

“Don’t call me that!” Jim bellows, causing Walter to glance over his shoulder. Luckily – or not, depending on your view of Chocolate Pie – Barbara flipped on the Food Magic 3000 a millisecond before Jim’s outburst. “My name is Jim. Jim! You don’t get to have a nickname for me. Not anymore.”

“Young Atlas,” Walter repeats slowly, deliberately. “I know –“

“Why are you even here?” Jim growls, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Why are you pretending to care about us when you’re just gonna turn around and release Gunmar from the Darklands? Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

“I’m not going to release Gunmar,” Walter breathes, standing his ground as Jim inches his way around the table. “Not anymore. I want to help you.”

“Bullshit!”

“I do. Honest.”

“Like I believe a word that comes out of your mouth,” Jim snarls, coming to to a stop in front of Walter. He levels the sword at his teacher’s throat. “I don’t trust you.”

“I haven’t given you a reason to,” Walter breathes, hands curling into fists at his sides as the tip of Daylight pokes into the flesh under his chin. “I know I haven’t. But, Jim, I have no desire to serve Gunmar any longer.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You just told me changelings don’t have a choice!” Jim sneers, eyes widening. “That you’ll die if you leave Gunmar’s side!”

“Because _they_ have nowhere to go,” Walter says gruffly, refusing to break eye contact with the emotionally distraught boy. “But _I_ do. Jim, I have _you_.”

“No.”

“My feelings for you have always been genuine. I admit, it was… difficult, at first, to realize my affection for you and for your mother far outweighed my sense of duty to Gunmar.” Walter swallows and licks his trembling lips. “But I know now.”

Jim presses forward, frowning when a droplet of crimson materializes at the tip of his sword. Oh, god, he doesn’t want to have to kill this man. “I don’t believe you.”

“I can prove it.”

“Oh yeah?” Jim demands, though there’s a shadow of desperate hope to his tone. “How?”

Walter slowly raises his hands in front of him so as not to spook the teen and then takes one large step back, before glancing at the kitchen door. If Barbara should walk in… But she’s been respectful of their privacy thus far and he doubts she’ll suddenly barge in on their conversation now.

 _Now or never_ , he thinks and a pop of green bursts through the room as he changes into his true form.

Jim inhales sharply, his bright blue eyes shining with shock and confusion. “It was you! You’re the troll who saved me from the stalkling.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t…” His arms suddenly go limp, Daylight coming to a rest against his thigh as he stares open-mouthed at the troll standing tall in front of him. He’s not exactly sure how he expected this conversation to go, but _this_ had not been it. “You wouldn’t tell me who you were. You said your name didn’t matter, but it did. It does!”

“Yes,” Walter admits softly. “A conclusion I’ve recently come to myself.”

“But _why_?” In a flash, the Trollhunter’s armor is gone and Jim’s forehead is wrinkling incredulously. “You can’t expect me to believe you’d just throw away centuries of loyalty to Gunmar because I’m your favorite student. Or because you have a crush on my mom.”

“A crush? I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious than all that –“ Walter halts and, frowning, tilts his ear toward the door as his heightened sense of hearing picks up the light tapping of Barbara’s shoes as she crosses the kitchen. “Listen, Jim. Bular has tasked me with stealing your amulet and replacing it with a copy. No,” he rolls his eyes when Jim’s hand instinctively reaches for his pocket, “I’m obviously not going to take it from you. But you must be prepared. When I return to the museum tonight having failed to retrieve it, Bular will send Nomura in my stead. She will likely try to kill you.”

“Story of my life.”

The kitchen door creaks open then, and Barbara pokes her head into the dining room. “Did the light just short out or something?”

Walter clears his throat and nonchalantly readjusts his jacket sleeves. “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“I could have sworn there was a green…” Barbara shakes her head and pushes the door wide open. “Never mind. I just wanted to check in. Everything okay?”

“That’s a good question.” Walter’s hopeful gaze falls upon Jim. “Young Atlas?”

The teenager chews his lower lip as he mulls over the question. “For now, yeah. I think so.”

Barbara sighs in relief and flashes him a grateful smile. She’d known in her heart they would come to an understanding, but there was still a piece of her that had been terrified of being forced to make a difficult decision. “Well, in that case... Voila! Dessert.”

Walter and Jim squint skeptically at the piles of crust crumbs, whipped cream, and dubiously chunky pudding Barbara proudly presents them, their upper lips curling simultaneously.

“Um, mom?” Jim asks hesitantly, not quite sure what to think of his mother’s latest kitchen failure. “What is that?”

“Chocolate pie.” Barbara winks and boasts, “It’s deconstructed.”


	9. I. Claire And Present Danger

It’s nearing midnight when a sharp, insistent knock echoes through the cavernous living room.

Walter freezes, and the bite of Mr. Mushu’s Famous Orange Chicken he’d been about to consume stays suspended midair by wooden chopsticks as he hesitantly cranes his neck to stare at the front door. He’s not expecting guests, not at this hour, and Barbara – who has already confirmed her commitment to covering Doctor Lewis’ shift _again_ – would just use her key, so he’s understandably wary as he slowly turns his gaze back to the half-eaten Chinese takeout.

It’s highly unlikely Bular would ever show up on his doorstep and only a technological catastrophe would warrant a visit from lower ranking changelings, but Nomura _has_ been known to make unsolicited house-calls to gripe or gloat. Which sends Walter’s heart leaping into his throat as the image of Bular (towering above him as he desperately shields his serpentine face) growling out of the corner of his mouth at her to retrieve the amulet at all costs flashes through his mind.

He gingerly leans forward to set the takeaway carton on the coffee table, before tugging the icepack off his swollen knee and struggling to his feet. He limps around the couch and toward the entry, but hesitates when his hand touches the knob. What if it _is_ Nomura out in the hallway? What if she’s here to brag about accomplishing the task he’s thought to have so miserably failed at? What if Jim…

“Tobes! Maybe he’s sleeping.”

“Could be. Old people _do_ go to bed at seven-thirty.”

 _Thank the Pale Lady,_ Walter thinks as the sound of Jim’s muffled voice reaches his ears. He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and chuckles darkly at his own overdramatic reaction to a simple knock.

But what the hell are they doing here? And how do they even know where he lives?

“Mr. Lake, Mr. Domzalski?” Walter inquires as he yanks open the heavy wooden door to greet the teens. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The boys look up, wide-eyed at their teacher’s very sudden appearance. Toby is the first to recover and, as Walter crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe to alleviate some of the pressure on his injured knee, whistles, “Damn, Strickler. What happened to you?”

Walter rewards the question with a withering look before turning his full attention to Jim. “I could ask the same of you, Young Atlas.”

“Nomura –“

“Kicked his ass.”

“Dude! She did not,” Jim hisses at his best friend out of the corner of his mouth before rolling his eyes in Walter’s direction. “She got in a few good hits. That’s all.”

“Yes, well. Nomura is a rather skilled opponent.” Try as he might, Walter is unable to keep a proud smirk from tugging at his lips. “There’s no shame in, uh… having her hand you your own arse. I’m impressed you only earned a few scrapes and scratches.” He pauses a beat. “But, also, still curious as to why the two of you have shown up unannounced on my doorstep.”

“You weren’t at school today,” Jim answers evasively, eyeing his teacher’s black-and-blue jaw with concern. “Coach Lawrence told us you were sick, and Mom said you weren’t answering her texts.”

“So. What?” Walter quirks an eyebrow, amused. “She sent you to check on me?”

“No. I was just…” Jim shrugs, and awkwardly shuffles his weight from one foot to the other. “I was worried. You said last night Bular would send Nomura because you failed. And I just… If you weren’t answering Mom’s texts… I thought maybe…”

Toby cringes at his friend’s awkwardly stuttered response and, hoping to divert attention from Jim’s quickly flushing face, steps forward to thrust an unopened can of chicken-noodle soup at the changeling. “We brought you soup, dude. Cause Nana always says you should feed a fever. Wait. Feed a cold? Starve a… Whatever. Here, take it.”

Walter eyes the soup, unimpressed. “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”

“Yeah, _so_ not the point.”

“Then what _is_ the point?”

“It’s a gesture of goodwill,” Toby says, and tries to peek past Walter into the apartment. “And you know it’s polite to invite guests inside, right?”

“You showed up without an invitation, Mr. Domzalski.” Walter blinks indifferently. “I’d say that makes you more solicitor, than guest.”

“It was my idea,” Jim admits, holding up his index finger to signal his responsibility. “I wanted to check on you and… Maybe ask some questions? But if you’re, like, not up to it…”

Walter tilts his head as he deliberates whether he’s really in the mood to entertain a couple of teenagers – even if one of them is his child – or if nursing his injuries while finishing off that takeout in relative peace would be a better use of his time. But all it takes is one look into those hopeful blue eyes and he’s slipping back from the doorframe. God, but the boy would have been spoiled rotten if he’d been present during the toddler years.

“I don’t have any soft drinks,” Walter calls over his shoulder as he turns and limps back into the apartment. “But I can put the kettle on.”

The teens look at each other, unsure, until Toby shrugs.

“Um, yeah,” Jim calls back and hesitantly pokes his head into the apartment. He glances around, curious, and turns to the left just in time to watch Walter disappear into what he assumes is the kitchen. “Yeah, tea is good!”

“Do we…” Toby purses his lips. “Do we just go in?”

This time it’s Jim’s turn to shrug. “I guess so.”

They creep in slowly, still a bit nervous about being in their teacher’s – because the whole _changeling_ thing is weirdly less awkward – classically decorated apartment. Jim’s head swivels about as they venture down the hallway, Toby hot on his heels, until the kitchen comes into view.

“I hope chamomile is satisfactory,” Walter says as he sets the kettle on the stove. “I don’t think I have the stomach for anything much stronger tonight.”

“It’s… yeah. Whatever you have,” Jim says, frowning when Walter winces while reaching into one of the lower cabinets. “It was Bular, wasn’t it?”

Walter turns and sets the teabags on the table. “I may have underestimated his disappointment for failing to retrieve your amulet. But fear not, I shall be right as rain in a few days. One of the _few_ perks of possessing changeling DNA.”

“That’s not cool, man.” Toby shakes his head ruefully. “Don’t you guys have some sort of HR hotline you can call?”

“Tobes…”

“Alas, Mr. Domzalski, Gumm-Gumm tyrants are not especially known for embracing even the most basic workers’ rights.” Walter smirks, amused by the idea, and gestures toward the shelf loaded with crisp white mugs to his right. “But I’ll be sure to bring it up at the next staff meeting.”

“You should,” Toby mutters, and quirks an eyebrow at the mug he selects. While the rest are plain, white ceramic, this one has the words ‘THIS IS PROBABLY TEQUILA’ etched in black on one side. “Really, Strickler?”

“Oh. Um.” Walter rubs the back of his neck and glances sheepishly at Jim. “Just a little inside joke between Barbara and me.”

“Do you and my mom drink a lot of tequila together?” Jim narrows his eyes, unimpressed by the changeling’s answer.

“No, actually,” Walter snorts as the kettle begins whistling behind him. “Just the once. But it, uh, left a lasting impression.”

“That’s not a weirdly cryptic thing to say at all,” Toby deadpans, raising his eyebrows in Jim’s direction as he passes the mug off. “Fill me up? I’ve gotta use the bathroom.”

“Through the living room, to your right,” Walter directs. “And, please, don’t snoop. It’s rude.”

“I wasn’t going to!”

“Let’s not lie to each other, Mr. Domzalski.”

Toby just shakes his head as he backs out of the kitchen, still fully intending to dig around for… Well, anything that could be considered even remotely suspicious.

“So,” Walter breathes once Toby is gone. He pulls the kettle off the stove and pours hot water into the three mugs now sitting on the kitchen table. “You survived a second bout with Nomura. Not many can claim to have achieved such a feat.”

“I had help.” Jim shrugs and sits down in one of the empty chairs. He deposits the teabags into the cups as Walter gingerly takes a seat across from him. “You warned me this time. And if Draal hadn’t shown up the first time…”

“Draal?” Walter tilts his head curiously. “It was Draal the Deadly? I just assumed it had been Aaarrrgghh.”

“Uh, no. It was Draal.” And now Jim is grimacing and nervously rubbing the back of his own neck. “And he’s sorta… been living in my basement ever since.”

Walter nearly spits out his tea, eyes wide. “What?!”

“For a few months now. Yeah.” Jim’s nose wrinkles even further. “He’s heard some stuff.

With great effort, Walter manages to ignore the context of that last comment. “Like our conversation last night?”

“Yeah… And, so did Claire.”

“Claire Nuñez?”

“I mean, I don’t know _exactly_ how much she heard before she knocked herself out,” Jim’s tone is apologetic as he takes a sip of his drink. “But she knows the gist of it now that I saved her from a goblin attack.”

Walter blinks.

“I had to explain what changelings are, cause… Well, her brother. But I didn’t tell her that you’re one and she didn’t ask.” Jim gives a hopeful little shrug. “So maybe she was already unconscious for that part?”

“Maybe,” Walter murmurs. “The youngling, NotEnrique? What does he know?”

“He’s on our side. Well, as much as a changeling can be…” Jim cringes at the way Walter’s emerald eyes narrow. “Sorry. Um. He helps us. When it, ya know, benefits him. Like last night when he helped… Er.”

“Helped your friends break into my office?” Walter asks with a smirk as he sets down his mug. “I must apologize for leaving the Antramonstrum unattended, but I couldn’t keep it in my flat anymore. Not with your mother coming and going as she pleases.”

“Why…” Jim’s brow furrows as the irrational part of his brain skips straight to wondering how his mom could possibly let herself into Walter’s apartment to unleash a dangerous smoke monster without the changeling’s knowledge. The conclusion he comes to does _not_ sit well. “Wait.”

Walter clears his throat. “I assume your friends were able to acquire the fetch?”

“Yeah, but why would –“

“Very good,” Walter says quickly, nodding. “I didn’t want to make it too obvious, but –“

“Strickler, does my mom have a key to this place?”

 _Damnit_. “Yes.”

“What the… Seriously?” Jim snaps incredulously. “So this is like, your little love nest or something? Wait. No. Don’t answer that. How often does she stay here?”

“Enough to leave a toothbrush.” Toby suddenly reappears and smirks knowingly at Walter. The teacher’s jaw clenches and his eyes widen in warning, but Toby only continues to grin as he announces, “And she has her own drawer in the dresser.”

“It seems you were quite thorough in your search, weren’t you?” Walter growls, glaring at the teen as he nonchalantly sips his – hopefully, cold – tea. “Find anything of interest?”

“Lots.” Toby quirks a brow and sets down his mug. “Those geodes in your study are a super rare type and the swords you’ve got mounted in your room are pretty impressive.” He taps his chin, mockingly thoughtful. “But you know what I’m _really_ curious about?”

“What?”

“Why there’s a baby picture of  –“

Jim flinches when his cell suddenly buzzes to life, effectively pulling his attention away from a potentially illuminating interrogation. “It’s Blinky,” Jim murmurs, frowning as he stares down at the Caller ID. “Do you guys mind if I take this?”

“Of course not,” Walter says evenly, somehow managing to keep the immense relief out of his voice. He glances at Toby, the smug little shit, and resolves to move that baby picture of Jim Barbara had given him to a more secure location. Because apparently a locked desk-drawer isn’t safe enough. “It could be important.”

“I… Yeah, you’re right,” Jim agrees hesitantly before leveling a stern look at the changeling. “But this isn’t over.”

Walter inclines his head, though he has absolutely no intention to further that particular conversation, and watches Jim tap the speaker icon on the phone to accept the call. Immediately, Blinky’s voice – forced and on edge – calls out to him. “Master Jim? Is that you?”

“Blink, what’s the matter?”

“You must listen to me very carefully. They captured me. They want you to come to the bridge. _Alone_.” There’s a short pause wherein Jim looks up, wide-eyed and panicked, to find Walter staring thoughtfully at the phone. And then, “Don’t come! It’s a trap!”

“Give me that!” It’s Nomura’s voice, muffled at first as she wrestles the phone from Blinky but then crystal clear. “It appears you no longer have the luxury of bodyguards, Trollhunter. Meet me in the alley beside the theater tomorrow at noon if you ever want to see your friend again.”

“No!” Blinky shouts in the background. “Don’t open the bridge! Under no circumstances –“

The call drops.

“Did you know about this?”

Walter’s brow creases, genuinely shocked by the venom in Jim’s tone. He glances at Toby, but the teen looks just as surprised by the unspoken accusation as he is. “Pardon?”

“You’re one of them,” Jim growls and leans forward threateningly. “You must have known they were up to something. Did you help them? Or set Blinky up?”

“Jimbo, I don’t think –“

“Here I thought we’d come to an understanding,” Walter says softly, blinking rapidly as he pushes back from the table. He awkwardly climbs to his feet, and the pain that shoots through his injured knee is nothing compared to the way his heart twists upon realizing how wrong he was. Jim will _never_ trust him. Not completely. “And I think you’ve now overstayed your welcome, Mr. Lake. Please see yourselves out.”

“What? Strickler, no.” Jim’s whole demeanor changes in a split-second, the fierce anger giving way to shame as his shoulders sag and his face falls. “Please, I’m sorry. I just… Jumped to conclusions and…”

“It’s _okay_ , Jim. I… I understand your position.” The changeling flashes him a weak almost-smile just as his own phone pings, signaling a text. He lurches to the counter and taps open the message. “Ah. I have also been summoned. That makes for a credible cover story as to why you will not be arriving alone tomorrow.”

“Dude,” Toby snorts, rolling his eyes in Walter’s directions. “He’s got plenty of backup.”

“But Nomura said –“

“I always thought you were a smart boy,” Walter interrupts quietly, “but if you think I would allow you to face Bular on your own… Well, I may have to rethink my stance on your intelligence.”

Jim nods, a grin forming on his face. “You’ll help?”

“Obviously.”

“We need to bring in Aaarrrgghh and Draal,” Toby says, glancing thoughtfully between the changeling and the Trollhunter. “Is there a way to sneak them up here?”

Walter gives him a single, cheerless chuckle.“It seems you’ve failed to discover _all_  my secrets during your earlier investigation.”

 _Maybe_ , Toby thinks and eyes the pair critically as he trails them back to the living room a moment later. The shoulders are the same, as are the long legs and tailored waists. And even with the limp, their gait matches. _But I’m starting to connect the dots._


	10. I. The Battle Of Two Bridges

The plan is simple.

Which is probably why everything has gone pear-shaped within thirty seconds of introducing the Trollhunter’s team into the melee.

Or, maybe he only _thinks_ it has due to the sudden, unexpected trauma of having his gronk-nuks knocked into the pit of his stomach by one Tobias Domzalski.

“Sorry, Strickler.” Toby grimaces, bouncing from one foot to the other as he stares anxiously down at the writhing changeling. “But you said to make it look real.”

“Summ-er…” Walter manages to squeak as his vision swims and the blinding, pulsing pain in his lower stomach continues to immobilize him. The urge to vomit is unmistakable, and he wonders if he’d be able to aim well enough to cover the damned teenager’s shoes. “School.”

“What!?” Toby’s jaw drops as the tip of his baseball bat pings against the tile floor. “But you said –“

“De –“

“Okay!” Toby bellows, wide-eyed and unwilling to risk whatever further punishment his teacher feels inclined to unfairly dole out. He looks up when Jim suddenly calls out to him from atop the dubiously-crafted scaffolding, and then back down at a _slowly_ recovering Walter. “Look, dude. We’ll talk about this later, okay? But just stay down for now. Don’t wanna blow your cover.”

Walter tries to snarl a retort, but Toby abruptly abandons him in favor of charging blindly back into the brawl. Which is probably a good thing since he’s pretty sure the only thing that would have come out of his mouth is another strangled groan.

He curls onto his side in time to watch Aaarrrgghh launch Toby skyward, and he’s hoping for a rough landing as a gunmetal-gray blur flings itself at the Krubera. Walter manages to roll his eyes – of course, Otto would rush the _pacifist_ – before noticing how well Draal is holding his own against Bular. Jim, too, is cutting down goblins with skilled precision and Toby has already set to freeing Blinky. Though he seems to be using a very blunt knife.

Wait.

Walter jerks his head up, the pain in his groin suddenly less debilitating now that he realizes Nomura is unaccounted for. His gaze flits desperately about the exhibition room until he spots her scurrying up the back of the scaffolding, and then his heart slams into his chest when he sees Jim is too preoccupied repelling goblins to notice the real threat sneaking behind him.  

He wants to cry out a warning, but Jim’s instructions were explicit – maintain his cover at all cost.

But he has to do _something_.

“Nomura!” Walter shouts suddenly, crimson and gold eyes locked determinedly on the magenta changeling readying an attack on his son. He manages to climb to his feet – only growling out in pain once, when he puts pressure on his injured knee – and barks, “Leave the Trollhunter to me!”

The trick works, and Jim turns sharply as Nomura’s khopesh arcs over her head and downward toward his now upturned face.

“And let you have all the fun?” She scoffs as Jim nimbly blocks her furious assault. “Not a chance, Stricklander!”

Walter curses and darts forward, but is immediately forced back as Draal and Bular tumble into his path. Their trajectory is obvious and by the time they slam into the rickety scaffolding, Walter has already taken flight. He reaches Jim just as the structure begins to crumble and plucks the boy into the air as Nomura shrieks furiously from below.

“Are you alright?” Walter asks, none-too-gently tossing Jim on top of Killahead Bridge. The boy stumbles, but turns with Daylight at the ready as Walter flings a knife in his general direction.

“Fine,” Jim grunts, batting away the flurry of carefully aimed daggers with practiced ease. “You?”

“I’ll survive.”

“You sure about that?” Jim grins and hops out of the way as Walter slashes in his direction. “Looked like you took a pretty hard hit to the gronk-nuks from up here.”

“Yes, well…” Walter hisses, eyes narrowing, as Jim lands a superficial cut along his bicep. “It’s a good thing… your mother… doesn’t want more children, because I… don’t think it’s possible now.”

Jim lunges forward, but suddenly pulls short to stare at the changeling with wide, horrified eyes. He tilts his head and puts one hand out in front of him. “Hold up. You guys have talked about having kids? Together? Can you even _do_ that?”

“Uh.” Walter’s eyebrows hit his hairline – or, they would if he were in his human form – as he silently berates himself for saying something so foolish aloud. He clears his throat. “We… Ah.”

“You have!”

“Young Atlas.” Walter winces at the volume of the accusation, and checks hastily to ensure the outburst has not drawn unwanted attention. “I don’t think now is the best time –“

“Do _you_ want one?”

Walter opens his mouth, but the definitive denial sticks in his throat. Does he? No, no. Of course not. Probably not. Okay, so maybe he _has_ thought about what it would have been like to raise Jim – to have tucked him in at night with stories of Shigir or to have taught him to ride his first bike – and those may have led to other, more humiliating thoughts of the future… “No?”

“Are you telling me or asking me?”

“Jimbo!” They turn in unison to find Toby _still_ struggling to cut the main rope suspending Blinky from the rafters, an exasperated look on his face as he slowly twirls around in a circle. “A little help here?”

“Tobes!” Jim calls back, a hint of panic in his tone. “I’m coming!”

“Need a lift?” Walter quips, relieved for the interruption as Jim scans the edge of the bridge for a possible springboard. The boy eyes him quizzically, but quickly interprets the changeling’s intentions when he crouches and gestures him forward. “Do mind the wings, yes?”

“Strickler, I…” Jim’s nose wrinkles as he very reluctantly admits, “I guess it wouldn’t be _so_ terrible if –“

“ _Jim_!”

“But, like, not now!” Jim quickly huffs, cheeks flushing, when he notices the genuinely pleased smile tugging at the corners of Walter’s mouth. “Years, Strickler! _Years_ , okay?”

“Trollhunter…” Walter shakes his head and chuckles while flexing his claws toward himself. “Can you please attack me?”

“Oh, right!”

He skips forward, and Walter lowers his horns just as Jim sails over his head. The moment his foot lands solidly on the middle of his back, the changeling rears up to successfully catapult the Trollhunter skyward – and then promptly collapses when his injured knee gives way with an audible pop. “Fuck!”

This isn’t the first time he’s dislocated his knee – or jaw, or elbow, or finger – but it _is_ the first time it’s happened while in his troll form and if the lingering effects of that broken shoulder are anything to guide by, he may very well be in for a trip to the ER once back in his human guise. He can’t worry about that now, though. Not with the battle for humanity raging on around him. And so, with considerable effort, he pulls himself into a sitting position and is in the process of trying to gently pop his patella back into place when Otto barrels into him from behind.

“Damnit, Otto!”

“Sorry, Stricklander.”

Otto giggles, and Walter freezes upon realizing why he suddenly seems so jovial. The stocky, gray changeling has the amulet – _Jim’s_ amulet – clutched in his stubby little claws and is quickly advancing upon the Eye Stone.  

“How did you…” Walter’s breath catches when he spots Nomura lurching up the other side of the bridge, her usually graceful steps hampered by the struggling body dragging behind her. _No. No, this can’t be happening_!

But it is.

And he can do nothing more than watch with wide, terrified eyes as Otto forces the amulet into Jim’s hand and Nomura jams it into the Eye Stone a second later. There’s a burst of blue light that flows like liquid along the channels and grooves of Killahead Bridge, until the stone structure is completely consumed by the luminescent glow. For a brief moment no one moves – like time and space have suddenly ceased to exist – and then, abruptly, there’s a crackle of energy as the gateway between the Darklands and the surface bursts open.

Nomura cackles triumphantly, and Jim takes her distraction as a chance to elbow her in the stomach. He makes a grab for the amulet but Otto shoves him hard, causing the boy to stumble sideways into Walter’s outstretched arm. “What do we do?” He shouts over the roar of the vortex, his anxious deference reminding the changeling once again how unfair it is for this child – _his_ child – to have been forced into such a significant responsibility.

“You must be the one to – NotEnrique, no!”

But his warning doesn’t come quick enough and the poor youngling is blasted back, his cry of shock muffled by the booming of Gunmar calling to his son through the portal. The sound of the Skullcrusher’s voice spurs Walter into action, and his wings are stretching for flight when Draal suddenly flings himself upon the side of the bridge.

“It has to be you!” Walter tells Jim as Draal tosses Nomura carelessly over his shoulder and into a pillar. “No one else can yield Daylight!”

Jim nods and bounds forward, slamming into Otto before he can launch an attack. “Draal!” Jim yells, reaching out to the spiked troll. “Draal, no! Let go! Let go! I have to –“

Walter darts forward – knee be damned! – as Draal finally pries the amulet loose, and manages to wrap his wings around Jim mere milliseconds before a burst of pure blue energy surges through the room. He holds tight as the bridge crumples beneath his feet and…

Wakes hours later to the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

That’s… odd.

He should be surrounded by rubble right now. Not – his eyes flutter open as his palms flex against the stiff, starched sheets – tucked snugly into bed.

“It’s about time, Sleeping Beauty.”

Walter’s brow furrows as he tilts his face toward the sound of Barbara’s voice. He tries to blink her into focus but there’s a slight haze around his vision that continues to linger. “Barbara?”

“I’m here,” Barbara breathes as she settles herself on the edge of Walter’s bed and smooths her fingertips along his forehead and down to his cheek, smiling softly as he nuzzles instinctively into her touch. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” Walter snorts tiredly and licks his dry lips. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Barbara counters softly, just managing to keep the accusation out of her tone. She _knows_ there’s more to the story – there’s _always_ more to Walter’s stories – but she also knows now is not the best time to push too hard. Besides, she’s just so damn relieved to hear his voice.

“I, uh…” He refuses to lie. “Yes. I remember.”

“Can you tell me? Because Toby’s version of events seems a little sketchy.”

“Toby?”

Barbara notes the surprise in his tone. “He said he went to the museum to talk to Miss Nomura about some rock he wants to donate to the new geology exhibit. I guess there was some sort of explosion and when he went to investigate, he found you in the middle of some collapsed archway. Does that sound at all like what happened?”

Walter blinks. “That… actually seems right.”

“Then you’re very lucky to have only suffered a bump on the head and a mild tear in your MCL,” Barbara tells him as she lets out a deep breath and leans forward to press her lips against his temple. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“I’m sorry,” Walter murmurs as her lips travel to his. “I would never –“

“I want answers, Walt.”

He nods and swallows hard.

“But not now,” Barbara says, pulling away from him and reaching out for the phone on the bedside table. “Because we’ve got Act III to catch.”

“The play!” Walter realizes with a start. He tries to sit up, but Barbara gently pushes him back down with a hand to his chest. “Barbara, we have to –“

“You only missed the first half.” She thumbs open her phone and taps on the video chat option. It rings twice before Toby’s smiling face suddenly fills the screen. “Toby, hey. Is intermission over?”

“Not yet, Dr. L.” The video jostles around a bit as Toby walks. “Nana and I are just heading back to our seats. How’s Strickler doing?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Barbara says and passes the phone to Walter.

“Strickler,” Toby greets with a grin. “Glad to see you’re awake. How’s the leg? And the head? And, you know, other things?”

Walter’s eyes narrow. “Sore. _Everything_ is sore.”

“Yeah.” Toby clicks his tongue. “Sorry, bout that.”

“Barbara, love?” Walter looks up with an apologetic smile. “Could you fetch me a glass of water? My throat…”

He’s really asking for a moment of privacy and Barbara briefly contemplates refusing his request, but she knows it’ll come to nothing if she does. “Sure.” She gives his shoulder a squeeze before standing. “And I can probably bum a couple popsicles off Dietary for the show.”

“Fancy.” Walter smirks and wiggles his eyebrows, and waits until she’s gone to turn his attention back to Toby. “What happened?”

Toby glances around. “Bular was _pissed_ when the bridge collapsed. He chased Jim, Blinky, and Aaarrrgghh into the sewers, and your little changeling buddies cut out the second they were gone.”

“Is everyone alright?” Walter asks anxiously.

“Draal lost an arm. So, like, you totally owe him for helping me get you to your car,” Toby says with a pointed look. “But everyone else is fine. Well. Not Bular. He’s dead.”

“Dead?!”

“As a doornail.”

“But then…” Walter trails off and takes a deep, shaking breath as the magnitude of Toby’s news sinks in. No Bular. No bridge. No bloody master to bow to anymore. He feels… Relieved. So relieved. “For once, Mr. Domzalski, it is good to be the messenger. You no longer need attend summer school.”

“Gee, thanks.” Toby rolls his eyes, and then taps his chin when the lights in the auditorium begin to dim behind him. “Is the doc back yet? I think it’s starting.”

And, right on cue, Barbara breezes back into the room with a waxy paper cup clutched in one hand and two red popsicles in the other. She places the cup of water on the bedside table and nudges Walter with a gentle poke to the ribs. “Scootch.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Walter chortles and gingerly moves to the side to allow space for Barbara on the small, cramped hospital bed. He taps the ‘mute’ button as she settles in beside him, and then snakes an arm around her shoulders. “What flavor?”

Barbara shrugs as their son waltzes onto the stage. “Does it matter?”


	11. II. Return of The Trollhunter

The first week of Walter’s medical leave after the fall of Killahead is devoted to puttering about his apartment – terrorizing members of the Janus Order via video conference, organizing foolproof lesson plans for Coach Lawrence, and playing an _embarrassing_ amount of online chess – as his knee works its way through the healing process. It’s a very tedious, dull life for someone who has been plotting world domination for centuries and he’s just barely managing to maintain his sanity when Barbara asks him if he’d like to spend a few of days at her place.

“I think,” she wrinkles her nose at the stack of dishes in the sink and the empty wine bottles littering the granite countertop, “a change of scenery might do you some good.”

He can’t agree more, and his overnight bag is packed in record time.

The next few mornings are filled with lazy cuddles under the duvet and lattes from their favorite bistro off 5th, their afternoons with snuggles in the hammock out back and picnics in the park. They dine under the stars one evening and Walter finally reveals an exceedingly condensed, vague version of his involvement with the Order. He tries to answer her questions honestly, but realizes he’s led her completely astray when she sums up their conversation with, “So, you acquire and trade priceless relics. Like Indiana Jones?”

He _wants_ to correct her, but then she dumps an old sable-colored fedora on his head and winks as she pulls him into the bedroom.

Jim comes home from his ‘camping trip’ the following morning, and it’s only a _little_ awkward when he finds his World History teacher limping around his kitchen in nothing but a fluffy pink bathrobe. To everyone’s surprise, however, the teen doesn’t immediately demand eviction. Though he does suggest (through bared, clenched teeth) that Walter make a habit of wearing pants.

Fast forward three weeks and Walter’s first day back to work does not begin the way he thought it would.

To start, he wakes much too early – his mind whirring to life as visions of scantrons and textbooks dance mockingly in his head – and flops about for hours until finally giving up on the idea of sleep altogether. He lets out a low, frustrated growl as he slips out of bed, and pulls a worn thermal over his head before dropping a gentle kiss onto Barbara’s bare shoulder. The house is eerily quiet as he pads down the stairs and into the kitchen to flip on the coffeemaker. Which hisses to life just as the sound of the front door squeaking open, followed closely by muted whispers, reaches his ears.

“And where have you been?” Walter asks dryly, eyebrows arching curiously as Jim and Toby stumble into the kitchen. He crosses his legs at the ankles and leans back against the counter, hands loosely gripping the edge. “Have you got yourselves a paper route?”

Jim completely ignores the changeling’s question, and poses an exasperated one of his own instead, “We’ve _talked_ about this. Can you _please_ stop walking around my house in your underwear?”

“Yeah, man. No one wants to see that.” Toby’s nose wrinkles, but his face brightens a second later when the coffeemaker dings. “Ooh. Coffee!”

“Not so fast, Domzalski,” Walter drawls when the teen takes a step forward. “Answer my question, earn a refreshment.”

Toby lets out an indignant squeak.

“I’m not pointing fingers at anyone,” Jim says as he slowly turns a pointed look at his best friend. “But _someone_ summoned an infernal hellheeti at 2AM.”

“I told you, it’s not my fault. The guy I bought that lava slang from didn’t tell me it contained a frickin’ fire demon, okay?” Toby defends petulantly for the umpteenth time that morning. “He should have labelled it or something.”

“No. No, you’re right,” Jim says after a moment. He chuckles and flashes a conspiratorial grin. “And it _was_ pretty cool chopping that hydrant in half.”

“Yeah it was!” Toby turns back to Walter excitedly. “You should have been there, Strickler. He literally… chopped a fire hydrant in _half_.”

“I’ve heard.” Walter frowns at Jim. “Did you call to have the water turned off?”

Jim purses his lips and rocks forward onto his toes. “Um… Not so much, no.”

“You broke a water-main at…” Walter squints at the clock on the wall. “Four in the morning and didn’t think to report it? This _is_ California, Jim. Water is a precious commodity. Even more-so, this time of year. And I’m sure the street will have flooded enough to wreak havoc with traffic, by now.”

“Listen, Strickler.” Jim quirks an eyebrow and wags his index finger facetiously in Walter’s direction. “You may be staying here while you’re on medical leave, but that doesn’t to give you permission to walk around in your skivvies or lecture me. You’re not my dad.”

It’s a throwaway comment – he knows it is – but that doesn’t stop Walter’s stomach from dropping or his breath from catching in his throat. He tilts his head slightly to the side, blinking owlishly at the boy as he struggles to reestablish his usually impenetrable poker face. Toby, on the other hand, gasps quite exquisitely and manages to begin choking on his own saliva.

“Tobes!” Jim pounds the other teen on the back as he doubles over with coughs. “You okay?”

“Great.” Toby wheezes, trying to wave off his best friend’s attempt to knock the breath back into him. “Swallowed a… bug? Gnats? Yeah. Had to… be a gnat. I’m fine. Quit hitting me!”

But now his reaction has also caught Walter’s attention and the changeling narrows his eyes suspiciously at the sputtering redhead. This isn’t the first time Toby has shown signs of _knowing_ – that quip about sharing Jim’s very rare blood type while sneaking a peak at his medical chart, for instance – and every pointed look, every self-satisfied comment sets Walter more on edge.

“Uh… Know what?” Toby stammers once he’s regained his composure and noticed the penetrating look on Walter’s face. “I think… Yep, I hear Nana calling me.”

Jim’s forehead wrinkles in obvious confusion. “You… hear your Nana? From inside my kitchen?”

“Uh, huh. Yep.” Toby nods dismissively as he begins backing out of the room. He puts his hand to his ear. “Oh. Did you hear her? No? Cause I just did. Again. So, I’ll... see you in a couple hours.”

“That was… weirder than usual.”

“Agreed.”

Jim gives his head a slight shake before turning back to Walter. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I keep having nightmares about how far behind all of you have fallen under Lawrence’s tutelage,” Walter says with a shrug. He turns to pull a couple of mugs out of the cabinet and offers one to Jim.

“Still amped from the fight,” Jim declines with a wave of his hand. “And Coach Lawrence wasn’t so bad. We got to watch a _lot_ of movies.”

Walter snorts, and sets two mugs out anyway.

“Alright, well…” Jim jerks his thumb over his shoulder and takes a step back. “I’ve gotta go find the number for the city’s utilities department. And there’s some homework I need to finish up. My history teacher’s coming back today and he’s a real –“

“Careful, Young Atlas.”

“Peach,” he finishes with an innocent shrug. “A real peach.”

“Right.” Walter rolls his eyes. “Oh. And I almost forgot. Your mother wanted me to ask you if you’d like a ride to school this morning.”

“We’re not…” Jim scrunches his nose and shakes his head. “We’re not making that a thing.”

“I didn’t think so,” Walter agrees, chuckling as he turns to pour two cups of hot coffee. “Well, then. See you in class.”

The door shuts with a soft click as Walter puts the pot back on the warmer and then carefully gathers the steaming mugs in his hands. He’s still got a very slight limp, so he takes it slow through the living room and leans a bit on the railing as he climbs up the stairs. Barbara’s shift doesn’t begin for a couple more hours, but he isn’t really all that surprised to find her sitting up in bed as he pushes back into the bedroom.

“Babe?”

“Good morning,” Walter murmurs as he quietly kicks the door shut and sets one of the mugs down on Barbara’s bedside table. “Coffee?”

“Mmm, please.” She smiles sleepily up at him. “Where were you? I woke up and you were gone.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Walter admits softly and rounds to _his_ side of the bed. “Too nervous about going back to work.”

“You? Nervous?” Barbara yawns, and blinks as she gives a halfhearted, “Ha.”

“It’s true.”

“Doubtful.”

“Oh, alright then.” Walter’s lips curl into an amused grin as he slides under the duvet. He props his pillow against the headboard and leans back with a sigh. “I really am dreading the paperwork, though. And undoing all the damage Lawrence has undoubtedly done with his _films_.”

“Now that, I believe,” Barbara says, and tucks the soft white sheet securely around her chest as she snuggles into his side. “Did I hear the front door close?”

“Jim. He came home from Toby’s a little early to complete an assignment,” Walter fabricates reluctantly. He’s been trying so hard to be honest with Barbara and even the littlest lies now make his stomach churn with guilt. He switches gears quickly, hoping to keep her from further questioning. “Apparently his history teacher is returning from sabbatical today, and he’s a real peach.”

“That’s funny. I hear he’s a real ass.” Barbara smirks up at him and taps his chest. “Or, maybe, it’s that he has a real _nice_ ass.”

Walter laughs, and reaches up to trap her hand against his breastbone as he leans forward. “The latter, I believe.”

“Oh, most definitely.”

She sighs into the kiss – a soft, breathy little release Walter has come to live for these past few months – that prompts a low, growling whine from the back of his own throat. His free fingertips move to sweep along her jawline, down to her chin where they curl outward to rest against her cheek, before he breathes against her lips, “I love you.”

Barbara’s eyelids flutter open, her azure eyes wide. “What?”

Oh, shit.

It’s true, of course. And painfully obvious to _everyone_ , but that doesn’t mean he’d intended to tell her yet. Or like this. “Uh.” He clears his throat nervously, pulling away from her and letting his hands fall back to his sides. “I… Ah.”

“Do you mean it?” Barbara asks softly, peering up at him curiously from under her lashes.

“This isn’t…” Walter begins fidgeting with the duvet. It’s not that this is the first time he’s ever said the words, because he has. Many times, in fact. But they have always been false sentiments, a trick or a scheme to manipulate people. Just hollow words that never _meant_ anything to him. Until now. “I wanted to tell you properly.”

“Walter, honey.” She reaches for his hand and gives his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Do you _mean_ it?”

“Yes.”

He hesitates before lifting his gaze from their entwined fingers to find her staring at him, her lip stuck anxiously between her teeth. “Can you… say it again?”

“I…” His voice catches, but he recovers. “I love you.”

Her reaction is not what he expects.

Barbara surges forward, her palm darting up to curve around the back of Walter’s neck as she crushes her lips against his. It’s not a gentle kiss or a sweet kiss, it’s not something content or something tender – it’s bruising and raw, a desperate attempt to get closer. And it leaves him _aching_.

“Stay,” Barbara gasps, hooking her leg over his waist to hoist herself onto his lap. The hand that had been holding Walter’s a moment ago now sweeps through his hair, tugging rousingly down to the base of his skull as she nuzzles against his throat. “Stay here. Stay with us. With me.”

Walter groans, eyes falling shut as Barbara blazes a trail of hot kisses along his jaw and up to his ear. “Are you… asking me to, oh god.”

“Move in with me.”

He was only supposed to stay a weekend. Just a short staycation while Jim was off ‘camping’ with his friends, that had somehow turned into three weeks of everyone pointedly ignoring his lingering presence in the house. Even _Draal_ has managed to keep his disapproval to himself.

And now Stricklander – the clever, callous changeling – finds himself murmuring devotedly into the crook of his human’s neck, “Yes. Yes, I’ll… move in with you.”


	12. II. Mudslinging

Coach Lawrence turns out to be a rather decent substitute, and Walter doesn’t have nearly as much to reteach as he thought he would. Grading papers and posting scores, however, have never been one of the P.E. teacher’s top priorities and Walter finds himself skipping lunch every day his first week back in an attempt to catch up before the parents begin to revolt.

He’s awarded even more time on Thursday when Principal Levit excuses him from the mandatory Spring Fling assembly. Though, for once, he’d actually like to attend – if only to obtain material to tease Jim with at the dinner table that evening.

Ultimately, his better judgment wins out and Walter is making decent progress on a towering stack of essays chronicling the events leading up to the Revolutionary War when his son’s tale-tell war cry suddenly pierces the silence of his classroom. He freezes, his eyes glued to the **D+** he’d just awarded Logan Johnson and only begins to relax when there are no more sounds of battle to be – And now Jim is screeching out in surprise.

Walter glances forlornly at the pile of papers before heading to the window to investigate. _What the hell…_ he thinks as Jim is literally punted into a soccer goal by a hulking Earth Golem. He sighs as the teen struggles to free himself of the net and decides interference may not be necessary, but it would probably be appreciated. Especially now, when Jim is supposed to be presenting his idea for the Spring Fling theme.

He hurries out of the room, jogging briskly through the empty hallways, and pushes open the doors to the sports complex just in time to watch Jim narrowly escape being squished into the grass by a monstrous fist. He cringes when the beast’s foot connects with the boy a second later, but the Trollhunter recovers immediately and is hacking away at earthen appendages when Walter calls out to him, “The totem, Jim! You must destroy the totem!”

Jim looks up, the anxiety on his face giving way to relief at the sight of the changeling. “Where?”

“The chest,” Walter instructs, smacking his own to demonstrate. “Where the heart would be.”

“I got this… thing!” Jim dodges another kick and nods to a copse on the opposite side of the field. “Can you handle them?”

Walter turns in the direction Jim had gestured, his eyebrows narrowing in shocked indignation when Nomura’s smug visage comes into view. The magenta changeling hasn’t been seen in weeks – not since she fled with Otto to South America and managed to shake his contacts a month ago – and to see her now, obviously in connection with this attack on Jim, makes his blood boil. What is she playing at?

“Nomura!” He shouts, eyes flashing crimson as he stalks past the ongoing battle in the middle of the field to confront his fellow changeling. Her smirk intensifies the closer he gets and he’s so focused, so fixated on _her_ that he completely overlooks the tall, imposing figure to her left until he’s mere feet away. _No_ , he thinks, stopping in his tracks as the yellow-eyed troll sneers threateningly down at him. His stomach plummets and he glances anxiously over his shoulder as Jim slices open the golem’s chest, before turning back to the fabled Angor Rot. _Not him. Not the Pale Lady’s Champion, Slayer of Trollhunters himself._

“Stricklander,” Nomura purrs, her green eyes glowing under the shade of the trees. “I see you recognize my associate.”

“I do, yes.”

“Don’t you want to know how I brought him here?”

“What I want to _know_ ,” Walter hisses from behind clenched teeth, “is why you resurrected such a creature without the consent of the Order. This blatant breach in protocol will not go unpunished, Nomura. You have overstepped your bounds for the last time.”

“And you haven’t?” Nomura challenges with a growl. “How will the rest of the Order react when they’re told you’ve sided with the – Ah, Trollhunter. We were just talking about you.”

Walter instinctively moves to block Jim from Angor Rot’s direct path, his fingers discreetly circling the boy’s wrist when he tries to push past. This is not a fight they want to dive into headfirst, something the teen is known to do at the worst of times.

“More changelings,” the assassin observes scornfully. “Is this town infested?”

“I’m not a changeling,” Jim says, and Walter can’t help but flinch slightly at the teen’s declaration. He needs to know. It’s clear that they can’t wait much longer, not if there’s a chance his changeling blood can help him against this newest threat. “I’m the first human Trollhunter.”

“I know what you are.” Angor Rot eyes him. “And I do not make a habit of underestimating my prey.”

There’s a soft gasp, and Walter’s gaze falls on a wide-eyed Nomura. There’s no way for her to have deduced Jim’s actual paternity, but the way her features shift from confusion to dawning comprehension to betrayed spite tells him she believes the implication of Angor Rot’s words and realizes her leader knows more than he’s ever let on about the Trollhunter’s true heritage. “What’s your game, Strickler?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nomura.”

She stares at him, her eyes hard and piercing, and then suddenly looks away. “Let’s go, Angor Rot,” she commands, though there is now a slight waver to her tone. “I think you’ve done enough research. Now I have my own to begin.”

The assassin eyeballs Jim once more, lip curling predatorily, before turning to open a portal with his staff. Nomura’s gaze sweeps over Walter one last time, and he finally releases his hold on Jim’s wrist when they have retreated into the void and it has sealed itself shut.

“Okay,” Jim says slowly as his armor disappears in a bright flash of blue light. “Who was that?”

“Angor Rot.”

“Angry Who?”

“Angor Rot,” Walter breathes, turning to Jim with a troubled expression on his face, “is an ancient assassin, the Pale Lady’s Champion. Only a _fool_ would be desperate enough to summon him.”

Jim frowns and asks warily, “Why?”

“Because, Young Atlas, he is chaos incarnate and cannot truly be controlled.” His fingers curl into fists at his side, tight enough for his nails to leave little crescent shapes etched into his palms. “A soulless troll whose only purpose is to conquer the one who wields Merlin’s Amulet of Daylight.”

“Conquer?”

“Kill.”

“I figured,” Jim groans dramatically. “So, what do we do? Go on the offense? You know… the whole, hunter and prey switcharoo thing?”

“Don’t… Don’t do that, no.” Walter relaxes and lifts a hand to smooth his palm over his face. “He won’t attack right away. At least, I don’t think he will. From what I understand, Angor Rot enjoys the psychological torture a good chase provides nearly as much as the actual… murdering.” Jim quirks an eyebrow, and the changeling grimaces at his own choice of words. “Uh. Give me a few days to comb the Order archives, will you? There may be information housed there that could prove useful.”

“Yeah. Okay, sure.”

“Are you alright?”

“It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve had a murderous troll try to kill me,” Jim says with a shrug, though Walter senses the boy is more anxious than he’s letting on. “But thanks for asking.”

“You’re sure?”

“Totally.”

It feels like one of _those_ moments – the kind where father’s offer their son’s words of encouragement or a consoling embrace – and Walter finds himself taking a half-step forward before halting suddenly. How can it be one of those moments when Jim still thinks James Lake is his father? Not him. Not the centuries-old changeling he could barely stand to look at a few weeks ago. “Do you…” Walter shakes his head and grimaces at how incredibly uncomfortable he’s just made things. “Do you want to tell your mother I’ll be home late tonight?”

“What?” Jim frowns, taken aback by the abrupt change of subject.

“I need to finish posting grades this evening,” Walter explains, trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant. “And then I’d like to stop by the Janus Order to start investigating Angor Rot. You are going home after school today, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah.” Jim’s shoulders slump slightly as Walter flashes him a tight, awkward smile and begins his escape. But the teen is agitated now, stressed about the trained assassin sent to kill him and irritated by his disappointment over the changeling’s obvious decision _not_ to comfort him, and he’s only a few paces away when Jim asks bitterly, “When are you going home?”

Walter stops and turns back with a curious expression. “I just told you. After I visit headquarters –“

“No,” Jim huffs. “When are you going _home_? To your apartment? You’ve been bumming around my house for almost a month now, and I’m getting a little sick of it. Either go back to your place, or just move in already.”

“I am.”

“Am what?”

“Moving in.”

Jim blinks.

“Your mother asked me Monday morning and I said yes,” Walter smirks, welcoming his natural instinct to taunt with wide open arms. This is familiar territory, this is safe. “We were planning to tell you this weekend.”

“You’re moving in with us?” Jim asks slowly. “Do you really think that’s wise?”

“Do I think it’s _wise_?” Walter quirks an eyebrow. “To move into your house?”

“Dude, she doesn’t even know what you _are_ ,” Jim scoffs and throws his hands out in front of him. “And where are you gonna put all your magical changeling… crap?”

“I own the building I live in, so all my _crap_ can stay in the flat until we decide to lease it,” Walter answers, tilting his head. “And she doesn’t know what you are either.”

“So?”

“Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones,” Walter chides as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not the only one keeping secrets.”

Which is, to put it mildly, the understatement of the century.

“It’s not the same,” Jim insists, rolling his eyes. “You’re not even really human.”

Walter just manages to bite back the “neither are you” on the tip of his tongue, and settles instead for, “You do realize that if I were to confess my… trollish nature to her, then I would be forced to divulge your little secret, too?”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“No,” Walter snorts, though there’s an odd glimmer of paternal pride in his chest for his son suggesting such a favored tactic. And honestly, the thought had never even crossed his mind. “I’m merely explaining why I haven’t told her yet. Or, one of the reasons why. This is… not only my secret to tell, Young Atlas.”

A running theme lately.

“So, what?” Jim sighs, and it seems as if the wind has suddenly been stolen from his sails. “You’re waiting for me to give you the okay?”

“I’m waiting for the right time,” Walter corrects, softer now as he peers at his son. “Are you… really that uncomfortable with me moving in? Because, if you are, I –“

“I just want to keep her safe,” he mutters and kicks guiltily at the grass under his feet. “It’s why I haven’t told her that I’m the Trollhunter. She doesn’t…  You know how she is. It would just stress her out and she’s got so much on her plate already. And, like, she’d probably try to take on a troll with a broom or something.”

Walter laughs.

“She’d do it. You know she would.” Jim grins lopsidedly up at him, but it only lasts a second before he’s serious again. “You have a lot of enemies.”

And Walter sobers immediately. “I do.”

“Would they ever… Has anyone ever gone after you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so what if it happens again?” Jim’s gaze drops to the ground, his hand going to rub anxiously at the back of his neck. “What if someone shows up at the house?”

“There’s you. And there’s Draal.” Walter takes a hesitant step forward and claps a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And I hope you know I would _never_ knowingly put your mother in danger. I would… Well, I would die before I let anything happen to her.”

Jim looks up. “You mean that?”

“Absolutely, yes.”

“Okay.” Jim glances at the hand on his shoulder and nods. “Okay, yeah. I think… I think I can handle you moving in. Just don’t start trying to boss me around or anything. Cause I’ll have to kick your ass if you do.”

Walter laughs again, and gives Jim’s cheek a not-so-affectionate pat. “I’d like to see you try, Trollhunter.”

The bell rings then and a swarm of teenagers suddenly empties out of the gymnasium, Claire and Toby at the lead. Jim flinches at the incredulous looks on their faces. “Ah, man,” he moans. “I missed the theme contest.”

“You actually had something to present?”

“Well, no.” Jim shrugs sheepishly. “I thought I’d wing it.”

“Hmm. I’m sure that would have gone alright,” Walter says, rolling his eyes at the boy’s usual lack of planning as the two annoyed teens join them. “Anyway, I should get back. Essays to grade, and all that. Claire, Tobias.” He nods curtly at them before starting back toward his classroom. “I’ll see you at home, Young Atlas.”


	13. II. Roaming Fees May Apply

They begin moving the essentials on Friday afternoon.

Okay. Maybe not the _essentials_ , because most of those – laptop chargers and haircare products and underwear – have already made the migration. But there are still quite a few books Walter is keen to have nearby and an old vinyl collection he just can’t seem to part with that wind up crammed into the backseat of his car, alongside a box of old shoes he hasn’t worn in years and an unused coffee press he picked up in the 20’s. They decide to swap out the couch and the bedroom suite later, and everything else will eventually make its way into storage.

Or, in the case of his extensive stockpile of weaponry, secreted into the basement by Draal in the dead of night.

It takes four trips and two cars, and they’re absolutely famished by the time the last box is dropped into the foyer.

“Thai?” Walter suggests, squatting down to decipher the label Barbara had scribbled onto one of the boxes. He narrows his eyes, tilts his head, and realizes her handwriting is utterly illegible. Giving up, he sets the box to the side and stands. “Or Mexican?”

“I want grease,” Barbara says with a resolute nod as she crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the banister. “And caffeine.”

Walter checks his watch and frowns. “At this hour?”

“Babe, it’s our first official night living together.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I plan to keep you up late.”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well…” Barbara drops her arms to her sides and smirks as Walter saunters toward her. When he stops, she hooks her thumbs through his belt-loops and pulls him forward to whisper mischievously into his ear, “There’s still a suit of armor crammed in your backseat and an awful lot of boxes to unpack.”

Walter groans. “No fun.”

“You were the one who insisted on bringing that ancient drafting table with you,” Barbara chides playfully as he reaches past her shoulders to grip the spindles behind her. “Maybe we should turn the basement into a man-cave?”

“Oh. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Walter asks, nuzzling her jaw with his nose before trailing his lips across hers. “A built-in excuse to escape laundry duty.”

“I can still help fold.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s go to Elroy’s,” Barbara says, and resists the urge to pull him closer while attempting to steer the conversation back to her grumbling stomach. “We can grab coffee at that little café next to it after.”

“Whatever the lady –“

“Come on, guys!” They turn toward the front door at the same time to find their son glowering at them, hands on his hips. “You didn’t even close the door this time. Are you _trying_ to give the whole neighborhood a show?”

Walter snorts and Barbara bites her lower lip to keep from giggling.

“It’s not funny,” Jim insists, exasperated. “And you two really need to start closing the curtains. Toby’s Nana told me she’s impressed with your _affection for each other_.”

“We’re going out for burgers and coffee,” Barbara says, pointedly ignoring the teen’s comment as she ducks under Walter’s arm. “Would you like to join us?”

Jim’s forehead wrinkles as he seriously considers the offer. It _would_ be nice to take a break from everything, and he can already feel himself begin to relax as his mother wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Yeah, actually. That’d be – Oh, man. No, I can’t. I’ve got so much homework. And _someone_ assigned me extra credit.”

“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just turn your assignments in on time.” Walter quirks an eyebrow. “And I’m not going to do you any favors just because we live under the same roof now, either. So, don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“Honey, you’re still having a hard time keeping up with your schoolwork?” Barbara asks, her voice full of concern as she peers down at her son. “I thought you were all caught up.”

“I am,” Jim says slowly, gaze flicking to Walter. “But –“

“The workload has increased quite a bit over the past few weeks,” Walter supplies honestly, earning a grateful look from Jim. “Midterms and all that. Jim, do you want us to bring something home for you?”

“Double cheeseburger and fries.” Jim gives Barbara a quick squeeze goodbye and bounds up the stairs before she can revisit his current GPA, calling out over his shoulder, “And a double espresso.”

“Yeah…” Barbara drawls, blinking as the teen’s bedroom door slams shut. “That last part is absolutely not happening.”

The drive to Elroy’s is a short one, and Barbara manages to snag a little booth in the corner of the busy restaurant while Walter waits in line to place their order. He’s halfway to the counter when a group of students, led by Shannon Longhannon, suddenly materialize and begin peppering him with questions about the upcoming midterm. He answers each inquiry with a patient smile and when he looks up to give Barbara an apologetic shrug, he’s surprised to find her gazing back at him with a hunger in her eyes that has nothing to do with food.

“I forgot how sexy you are when you’re teaching,” she purrs when he returns with a tray full of burgers and fries. “I might have to audit a few of your classes.”

“When have you ever seen me teach?”

“I caught the end of a few lectures.” Barbara shrugs, and smirks impishly as she pulls her foot out of her shoe to glide along the inside of Walter’s calf. He jolts up, eyes wide, when her foot continues to travel north. “Well, before we…”

They eat quickly but decide to leisurely sip their coffees on the café’s secluded, empty patio. Jim will be up for the foreseeable future anyway and, after all, it’s such a nice night.

Or it is until Nomura happens upon them.

“Oh, hello.”

“Miss Nomura. Hi,” Barbara greets, surprised, and snatches her hand back from where it had been _resting_ against Walter’s inner thigh. “Would you… Um, care to join us?”

“I don’t think –“

“Thank you.” Nomura smiles that infuriatingly sly smile of hers and drops down into the seat across from her entirely unamused fellow changeling. She holds his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before turning to Barbara. “I’d love to.”

The doctor realizes she’s made a mistake within seconds, but it’s too late to revoke the invitation now and her only option is to attempt awkward conversation. “So, uh,” she starts tentatively, and glances at Walter to find him glaring openly at the other woman. “Walt told me you took some time off after the accident. Did you… stay in town?”

“I actually took a trip to the Amazon.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and Barbara frowns. “That sounds… interesting. Doesn’t it, honey? Sound interesting?”

“I hear the Amazon is full of dangerous creatures,” Walter drawls through a clenched jaw as he grips his coffee cup with a little more force than is strictly necessary. “Awful things that should not be disturbed and cannot be controlled. But then, you’ve always been drawn to chaos.”

Nomura chuckles darkly. “A characteristic you never failed to exploit if it suited your agenda.”

“Barbara, darling.” Walter slowly shifts his gaze, reluctant to take his eye off Nomura for even a second. “Can you please give us a moment?”

Barbara quirks an annoyed brow, not appreciating the dismissal at all. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” He gives her a genuine smile, one that conveys his intention to fill her in later, and leans over to kiss her cheek before she stands. “It’s alright.”

“I’ll just…” Barbara eyes the two warily, but trusts Walter enough to grant them privacy. “Go grab Jim’s dinner.”

He watches her go with a fond look in his eye, and only turns back to Nomura once she’s reached the safety of Elroy’s. “What do you want?”

“A lot of things,” Nomura says, shrugging nonchalantly back into her chair. “But mostly? I want to know why you insist on playing house when you know the good doctor is just going to kick your ass to the curb the instant she realizes her son’s father is nothing but an impure monster.”

Walter quirks a brow, feigning indifference as she manages to easily identify his most prominent insecurity. “How did you make the connection?”

“The internet,” Nomura deadpans. “There’s absolutely no record of a changeling ever using the name James Lake as an alias. So, I dug around a bit and found out where Dr. Lake lived about the time the boy would have been conceived. A quick search through the archives confirmed the only changeling residing within a hundred miles of that university was… you.”

“I never should have upgraded our archives to digital,” Walter sighs wearily. He lifts his coffee cup to his lips but stops suddenly, just short of taking a drink. Because there’s a sudden gleam in Nomura’s eye – a spark of anticipation only he has ever been able to recognize – that tells him something is not quite right with his caffeinated beverage anymore. “Alright.” He pretends to swallow and then gently places the cup back down on the table. “You’ve caught me. I’m the Trollhunter’s biological father. What do you plan to do with that information?”

“Nothing.”

Walter narrows his eyes. “Nothing?”

“Well. Not yet, at least.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s _a lot_ you don’t understand, Stricklander.” The corner of Nomura’s mouth ticks upward into a malicious sneer. “And there’s a lot you don’t know, either. Such as a little-known enchantment Angor Rot has recently introduced me to.”

He stares at her, staunchly refusing to take the bait.

“I have plans. Plans that are sure to draw the Trollhunter’s ire at some point.” She quirks a delicate brow and takes another sip of her tea. “And I believe it would be most advantageous to have some sort of protection when that time comes. The life of a parent, perhaps.”

“You want to use me as an insurance policy.” His tone is not necessarily disapproving, though he’s not happy to be the target of such a scheme either. The alternative, however, is… _would be_ , infuriating. “What does that have to do with an ancient enchantment?”

“Whatever happens to me, happens to you and vice versa. I’m injured, you’re injured. I’m killed, you’re killed,” Nomura tells him, her sneer melting into a self-satisfied grin. For once she has gotten one over on the great Stricklander. For once she has managed to win a round. “A life for a life, you could say.”

“A soul- bond?” Walter scoffs incredulously, completely taken aback by the scheme’s level of volatility. “Are you mad, woman? What if I were hit by a bus tomorrow?”

“And what if the Trollhunter discovers my intentions to – No.” She shakes her head, inwardly cursing that instinct to confide in him she’s had since they were nothing more than younglings in an incredibly foreign, unbelievably hostile environment. “No, I don’t report to you. Not anymore. Not after you chose that fleshbag –“

“Don’t call her that.”

“– over us. Over your brothers and sisters.” Nomura takes a shaky breath, her nose wrinkling as she glares at him. “Over _me_.”

“So, this is what? Revenge?” Walter asks with wide, unbelieving eyes. “Because I’ve chosen to side with the Trollhunter? With my _son_?”

“Because you broke your _promises_ ,” Nomura snarls back, teeth bared as she leans forward over the table. “Time after time, you’ve broken your promises so you could further your own self-interests.”

“We’re changelings.” Walter holds his hands out in front of him as if that were answer enough. “It’s our nature to be selfish.”

“But you _swore_.” She points at him accusingly, her index finger stabbing viciously in his direction. “When you went topside, you swore to get me out of that… hellhole at all costs. But I watched for centuries as, one by one – Bykov and Bernard and Giovanni and _Otto_ – were called for while I waited for you to fulfill your promise.”

“You think I got to the surface and just… had the power to bring up anyone I wanted?” He closes his eyes, and shakes his head before opening them again. “That’s not how it worked. I may have been a top recruit while in the Darklands, but I was nothing more than a dispensable foot soldier once here. I couldn’t choose to tie my own shoelaces, much less decide who was called to service.”

“You didn’t have shoelaces.”

Walter rolls his eyes at her petulance. “You know what I mean.”

“What I know is that you’re a liar and your excuses are as empty as your promises,” Nomura says, breathing out as her fingers curl around the edge of the table. She nods toward Elroy’s, and Walter follows her gaze to Barbara accepting their carry-out at the counter. “And I know you think you’ve finally found someone worth changing for, but you… You’re more a creature of habit than you think, Stricklander, and you’ll betray her just like you do everyone else. It’s your… How did you put it? Your nature.”

“It’s not.” Yet again, she’s managed to identify one of his most significant fears. “It’s not, and I won’t.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” She sighs and her face softens, a sudden look of disappointment – of mourning, maybe? – on her delicate features. And Walter knows that this is it, that the changeling he once huddled with for warmth and clung to out of fear has drawn a line in the sand, and he has somehow found himself on the opposite side of it. He watches her rise gracefully from the table, her jaw taut as she offers one last parting, “Goodbye, _brother_.”


	14. II. Blinky's Day Out

There is little that truly impresses Walter these days. He has, after all, spent several lifetimes observing incredible moments and attending rare historical events – both human and troll. But there is nothing, _nothing_ , he can recall experiencing throughout the centuries that has ever evoked the level of reverence and admiration he feels upon witnessing Barbara head-butt a very human Blinkous Galadriel as he loiters unsuspectingly in their home.

And just when he thinks his love for the doctor has finally reached its limit – that it’s physically impossible for his cold, stone heart to endure more – she punches the scholar in the eye and knocks him forcibly to the ground.

“ _Bravo_ , darling.”

Barbara whirls around at the sound of his awed voice, her eyes full of relief when she finds him standing in the doorway. “Walt, thank god you’re here! Can you believe this guy was just waltzing around our house?”

“Yes, dear, I can.” Walter nods, his green eyes dancing with amusement as Blinky continues to wail and writhe on the floor. “That is the new guidance counselor Principal Levit –“

“Mom!” Jim’s voice suddenly cries out and Barbara pivots back around, utterly bewildered, as her son charges into the hallway and skids to a stop behind the man she thought to be an intruder. “Wait, wait! Mom, he’s with me! Please stop kicking his ass!”

“Jim? Wait, what? I don’t…” Barbra slowly lowers her fists to her sides, though she keeps them clenched, as Jim helps the supposed counselor to his feet. “I don’t understand. Honey, why is your school counselor _here_? In our home?”

“I believe I can explain,” Walter supplies smoothly and steps forward to slide his palm comfortingly along Barbara’s lower back. She relaxes at his touch, and guilt settles into the pit of his stomach as he launches into yet another fabricated story. “You see, the district is trying to implement a new program. A sort of… proactive approach for students exhibiting signs of behavioral issues or whose academic performance has started slipping. Arcadia Oaks has been enlisted to pilot the program.”

“And, um…” Jim jumps in, his index finger waving as he tries to elaborate. “Mr. Blinky has been helping me through a lot of stuff lately, so I thought I would volunteer for a home visit.”

“Wait. I’m confused,” Barbara says, a concerned frown tugging at her lips. “I mean, I know you’ve been a little overwhelmed with schoolwork, but it sounds like there’s a lot more going on than you’ve let on. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing a counselor?”

“Really, Mom, it’s not that big of a deal. Just normal teenager stuff – homework, girls.” The boy levels a very pointed, very poignant look at Walter. “Catching my history teacher making out with my mom on the kitchen table at two in the morning. You know, the usual.”

Walter rolls his eyes. “That happened once, Young Atlas.”

“And it was traumatizing, Strickler.”

“Is it possible,” Blinky interrupts with a cough, “to speak with you alone, Dr. Lake? Outside, perhaps? After all, private conversations – or, those shared with a confidant such as myself – are meant for parents and guardians _only_.”

The insult is crystal clear – to Walter, at least – and he has to literally bite his cheek to keep from revealing Jim’s true paternity in a fit of petulance as Blinky, once again, insinuates a stronger parental bond with _his_ child. And while he manages to stifle a retort, he absolutely cannot swallow his snarl when the scholar gently takes hold of Barbara’s elbow. She looks up at him, briefly startled, and hesitates before reluctantly allowing herself to be led toward the front porch.

“Thanks.”

“What?”

“For the plausible cover story,” Jim says, oblivious to the changeling’s ill-concealed hostility. “I know you’re not a huge fan of lying to my mom anymore, but… I don’t think I could have come up with something like that off the top of my head.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Walter snorts as the tension in his jaw and shoulders begins to ease. “Some of the stories you’ve concocted are truly inspired. If this whole trollhunting business ever slows down, you could make good money in improv.”

Jim laughs. “Yeah, well don’t say that around Claire. She thinks she’s the master of –“

The door in the kitchen bursts open then, prompting Jim to turn as Toby and Claire (speak of the devil) stumble into the hallway. They chatter excitedly, heads swiveling from side to side in search of the human version of their favorite mentor. Toby even goes so far as to stick his head into the recently vacated powder room.

“Foul.” He croaks a breath out of the back of his throat, nose wrinkling. “That your handiwork, Strickler?”

Walter glares at him.

“That’s what happens when you have a delicate tummy, but think whipped cream with pizza and cereal tastes magically delicious,” Jim supplies helpfully as Toby peeks around him to check the living room. “Blinky’s outside with my mom, Tobes.”

“Yeah, okay.” Toby frowns and rocks back onto his heels. “Why? Exactly?”

The teens begin jabbering away and when their conversation shifts to afternoon plans, Walter sighs and checks his watch. It’s not yet 4 o’clock but he could _really_ use one of those Smithwick’s Barbara picked up the day before. He’s completely ignored as he ambles into the kitchen, pausing only to sneer at the mess of cartons and boxes and cans littering the countertops, before yanking open the refrigerator… to find a very cold, very anxious youngling shivering uncontrollably on the bottom shelf. “What the hell are you doing in the icebox?”

“Bo-boss-ma-man,” NotEnrique greets through chattering teeth. “Good ta see-ee you, mate.”

“I’m not your mate,” Walter snaps, swooping forward to pull the small changeling out of the refrigerator. “How did you get in there? You could have died.”

“Didn’t know… you cared.”

“I don’t.”

NotEnrique doesn’t argue, and – though his first instinct is to bite Walter’s fingers off – doesn’t complain either when he’s gathered into the older changeling’s arms and a jacket is tugged around his shaking shoulders. Without thinking, he nuzzles into his superior’s solid, warm chest.

“Are you…” Jim’s voice suddenly sounds from the doorway. “Are you cuddling with NotEnrique?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Young Atlas.”

“Okay, but,” Jim snorts, “from here it looks like –“

“He did it, Boss,” NotEnrique interrupts with a bitter accusation. He peeks his head out from under the jacket and scowls at the Trollhunter. “Stuffed me in and left me to die.”

Walter frowns. “Is that true, Jim?”

“Mom was coming, and I needed to hide him somewhere.” Jim shrugs. “He’s made of stone. It’s not like he can actually freeze to death.”

“No, but he can _suffocate_ ,” Walter sneers, shaking his head incredulously at his son’s dismissive tone. “Honestly. Don’t you know anything about changeling biology? We have to breathe. Just like humans.”

“What?” Jim’s jaw drops. “No. No, I didn’t realize... NotEnrique, I’m so sorry. I would never –“

But the boy’s apology is cut short when Barbara calls out to them from the foyer. She sounds uncertain and… slightly repulsed?

There’s a flash of green light as NotEnrique switches forms, which prompts Walter to adjust his hold so the youngling’s cheek his pressed firmly into the crook of his neck. He shakes his head and shoots Jim one last look of disappointment before pushing past the horrified teenager and into the hall.

And immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Tobias Domzalski,” Walter barks, lip curling as Toby gleefully jiggles Blinky’s fleshy cheeks between his palms. “Kindly refrain from poking and prodding the new guidance counselor.”

The teen freezes and his arms drop to his sides a second later as he turns sheepishly toward his appalled history teacher. “Sorry, Strickler.”

“I am not the one you should apologize to.” The changeling nods to Blinky in a rare show of support, and notices Jim slink through the dining room out of the corner of his eye. “Ah, Young Atlas. Perhaps you and your friends can escort Mr. Blinky –“

“Blink-hay.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is pronounced Blink-hay. It’s Bulgarian,” Blinky says with a hint of smugness as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Which you would know if you had paid attention during my introduction to the faculty.”

And after he’d so graciously scolded Toby into an apology, too.

Walter arches an eyebrow. “I must have tuned you out by that point. You do tend to drone needlessly, after all.”

“Pot. Kettle.” Blinky scowls. “Black.”

“Okay. You two obviously don’t play well together,” Barbara snorts at their immaturity, eyebrows narrowing. “But I’d really like to finish our earlier conversation, Mr. Blinky, and I think it’s pretty imperative that Walt is a part of it. So, maybe you can stop bitching at each other for five minutes and communicate like adults?”

“Get it, Dr. L.”

“Toby.” Barbara shoots him a warning look before jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “You three. Go play Sushi Ninja Bomb Pops for a little while.”

“It’s Go Go…” Toby trails off with a frown. “Know what? Doesn’t matter. We’ll see you guys later.”

“Uh, Strickler?” Claire ventures uncertainly as the teenagers begin gravitating toward the front door. “Can I have my little brother back?”

Walter stops bouncing – when had he _started_ bouncing? he wonders – and tilts his head as if surprised to find a baby dozing casually against his shoulder. It feels so… natural, comfortable. And even though NotEnrique is technically still his subordinate, Walter is reluctant to let go of him and he experiences an odd rush of relief when the youngling begins fussing. “Just… one moment,” he murmurs softly, smoothing his hand over thick, blonde hair until the baby settles.

“Dude, I think your mom’s ovaries just exploded.”

“Tobes!”

“He’s not wrong, Jim.”

The teenagers teasing causes him to look up, and Walter fully expects to find a look of exasperated annoyance on Barbara’s face. He doesn’t. In fact, the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth could be easily deemed as wistful and the gleam in her bright blue eyes seems almost yearning in nature. Which is, Walter realizes as he holds her tender gaze, a phenomenon he can relate to. How many of these moments could – _should_ – they have had with Jim?

 Of course, it’s Blinky who breaks the spell.

“I hate to interrupt,” he says, his tone gentle. “But the children and I should be going soon. If you’d still like to talk –“

“Yes.” Barbara blinks. “Yes, let’s… Um. Jim, honey?”

While mother and son briefly talk through their evening plans, Walter carefully pries tiny fingers from his turtleneck and wipes away a dribble of drool with his thumb. The action jostles the youngling enough for his eyelids to flutter and he whines when the older changeling passes him off to his human sister, but NotEnrique is once again sleeping soundly by the time Claire turns to leave the house.

“Alright, love,” Walter says, turning to Barbara once the front door is firmly shut. “What is it you’d like to discuss?”

“Mr. Blinky…” Barbara takes a deep breath. “Walter is Jim’s biological father.”

“Barbara!” Walter squawks incredulously and thrusts his arms out in front of him, palms up, in a gesture universally recognized to mean – _what the actual fuck_? He glances at Blinky, but the troll has been stunned into silence and is staring back at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Listen,” Barbara explains calmly. She crosses the room and places her hands atop Walter’s, her fingers curling around his wrists as she catches his eye. “Jim trusts Mr. Blinky. He’s opened up to him, talked to him about problems and insecurities I had no idea existed.” She sighs. “And it seems like a lot of Jim’s anxiety is a direct result of James – his _dad_ – abandoning us.”

“Okay,” Walter says slowly, his brain struggling to form coherent sentences that don’t include a litany of curses or panicked rejection. “But shouldn’t we have addressed the issue privately?”

“Oh, we will.” Barbara gives him an encouraging smile. “And I think Mr. Blinky can help us with that.”

Walter’s lip curls. “How?”

“He’s a professional, Walt,” Barbara says. She tugs him forward, and drops one of his hands as she turns back toward Blinky. “I’m sure he has millions of ideas that can help us break the news. Right, Mr. Blinky?”

Blinky, well, blinks when the changeling – Jim’s _father_ – quirks a skeptical brow in his direction. Great Gronka Morica, he thinks, the Trollhunter is part changeling! What will Vendel say? And more importantly, what will the citizens of Trollmarket – who have _finally_ begun to accept the idea of a human Trollhunter – think when it’s revealed their greatest protector was sired by such a wily, wicked changeling? “Er. Yes?”

“Such as?”

But Blinky is saved from stuttering out an answer when Barbara’s cell suddenly starts chirping. She growls, frustrated by the interruption, before reaching into her back pocket to retrieve the device. “Ugh. It’s the hospital. Do you…”

“Of course, dear. Go.” Walter shoos her away with a flick of his wrist, turning back to troll-turned-human as she disappears into the kitchen. The changeling immediately opens his mouth to try to diffuse the situation, but Blinky is quicker.

“Why?”

“Come again?”

“Why him?” Blinky’s eyes narrow. “Why Master Jim?”

Walter stares dubiously at the scholar. “Do you think I just _decided_ to become Jim’s father because he was chosen to be the Trollhunter? That I somehow planned this? Do you even know how humans reproduce?”

“I know enough,” Blinky blusters, blushing. “And I understand it must be a very recent development if Master Jim has yet to be informed.”

“It’s really not,” Walter says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jim was born sixteen years ago, Blinkous. Well before he became the Trollhunter. And I can guarantee his conception was _not_ the result of some scheme to infiltrate Trollmarket. Tequila shots, yes. Nefarious plots, no.”

“Yes, obviously.” Blinky grimaces, feeling foolish to have jumped to such conclusions. “I believe you. But what does this mean for Master Jim? I’ve never even heard of a changeling/human hybrid before. How do we know he’s not going to sprout fangs in the middle of the Forge? Or at school?”

“Hybrids favoring their human form are typically unable to transform until they reach physical maturity,” Walter explains. “Not that there have been many to test the theory. It’s against… protocol to breed with humans and if an accident knowingly occurs it is usually dealt with before birth. But of those who survived, only a handful ever had the ability to shift before they reached adulthood and that was due to prolonged exposure to gaggle-tacks.”

Blinky’s eyes widen. “But Master Jim _did_ handle a gaggle-tack. He –“

“Started growing horns,” Walter interrupts with a sigh. “You can imagine my surprise when I combed through his hair in search of lice, only to discover hornbuds instead.”

“Hornbuds?” Blinky taps his chin. “Are they still there?”

Walter shakes his head. “No. He never maintained contact with the gaggle-tack long enough for the changes to take root. He thinks he was having an allergic reaction.”

“Wasn’t he?” Blinky quirks a brow and considers the changeling. It all… makes a lot of sense, now that he thinks about it. None of the humans he’s ever studied have ever possessed the agility, the stamina, or the ability to heal that young Master Jim has displayed since becoming the Trollhunter, but every single changeling he has ever encountered _has_. And now that the initial shock has begun to wear away, the scholar is eager to learn more. “Strickler,” he continues after a moment, “I want to help Jim. And to do that, I need to know more about him. None of the texts or manuscripts I have come across mention the existence of human/changeling hybrids, but you seem to be… knowledgeable of the subject. Would you be willing to let me pick your brain?”

“You want to work with me?” Walter asks, surprised and somewhat hopeful. His eyes narrow as he surveys the troll, but he’s unable to sniff out even a trace of deception. “Willingly?”

Blinky nods. “For Master Jim, yes.”


	15. II. Where Is My Mind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DarkInuFan: credit for Blinky and Aaarrrgghh's behavior in the first part of this chapter goes to you. I had a similar thought process, but you fleshed it out way better than I ever would have. Thank you!

The rest of the week flies by in a flurry of inconvenient and unexpected, yet not all that surprising, adventures that leave Walter grateful for a relatively quiet Friday afternoon.

Now that Blinky and Aaarrrgghh – “Thought smelled same,” the behemoth had muttered with a wry smile – have been made aware of his biological relationship to Jim, Walter has somehow found himself an unwitting member of the trollhunting gang. It hasn’t even been a full seven days, yet he’s already pulled an all-nighter researching Angor Rot’s curse as Blinky snored obnoxiously in the corner, dodged Creeper’s Sun while slopping through one of Florida’s finest mosquito-infested swamps, and watched helplessly as his new home quite literally floated off its foundation.

He deserves a break, damnit.

Which is why he’s spending his free period lounging in his plush leather chair, fingers threaded behind his head and feet propped pleasantly on top of his desk. There’s a stack of quizzes to grade and a few essays he needs to pick through  waiting for him in his To Do tray, but he’s so comfortable and the sun streaming through the window is so soothingly warm that he can’t really find it in himself to care about them.

His eyes drift closed…

And pop wide open a second later when something buzzes past his ear. He scowls suspiciously, ears and eyes straining to locate the source of the sound before the little beast has the chance to bite him. After a moment of fruitless searching, however, it becomes clear the insect has successfully evaded him.

With a grumble, Walter burrows deeper into the chair.

He appreciates Blinky’s sudden willingness to include him. Really, he does. However, the troll’s assumption that he can just shirk his responsibilities to go gallivanting with a bunch of teenagers – who should absolutely _not_ be searching for precious stones on schooldays – has already become overwhelmingly irritating. He’s got a life, after all.

It doesn’t help that Blinky has been treating them, Walter and Jim, like some sort of science experiment, either. But if impromptu inquisitions and obtrusive observations are what it takes to keep the scholar’s mouth shut a little longer, then so be it. If he could survive that disastrous trek across Siberia (relatively) unscathed, he can manage a few more weeks of Blinkous Galadriel’s overbearing investigations.

How? – is the question.

A question he’s just beginning to ponder when his office door is suddenly hurled open. He rears up in shock, eyes flashing instinctively scarlet as the force of the door slamming into the bookshelf sends an array of pictures and curios crashing to the floor. Someone – someone unnaturally _tall_ – staggers into the room and Walter is readying himself for a fight when he recognizes the blue jacket pulled over the creature’s head.

“Strickler!”

Yes, that’s Jim’s voice alright. But… No. It’s too deep, too gritty and forced. Almost reminiscent of his own change in timbre when – oh, hell.

The boy stumbles forward, his jacket slipping off the top of his… _horns_ when his knees smash into the floor. He arches backward and Walter stares in shock as the jacket falls away altogether.

Jim is blue.

A deep cerulean, dappled here and there with jade deposits that match Walter’s own serpentine skin. There are tusks jutting out of his wide mouth, and two ivory nibs atop his head that have barely even started curving back yet. And – the changeling’s eyes widen in disbelief – a set of juvenile wings beginning to rip through the back of his crisp white t-shirt.

“I think…” Jim groans, too large hands clutching at his temples. “I think I’m having another allergic reaction. But I don’t know… what I touched.”

Walter blinks, frozen.

“Can you help me?” Jim whimpers pitifully. “Please, Strickler? I can’t… What’s happening to me?”

 _He’s in pain,_ Walter realizes, staring in horror as Jim cries out and curls forward. _Why is he in pain? It doesn’t – it shouldn’t hurt!_

Unless...

Unless his body isn’t ready, isn’t mature enough to handle the transformation. It’s happened before – a change forced upon a hybrid too young to cope with the rigorous magical and biological manipulation – and, almost always, results in the death of the youngling.

“No!”

The thought snaps him from his stupor, and Walter surges forward just as Jim collapses onto the ground. “Don’t fight it,” he commands in a panic, slipping his hands under the boy’s shoulders to haul him onto his lap. “Go with it, Jim. Take a deep breath. That’s a good boy. Your body is trying to fight the change, but it’s not strong enough yet.”

“Change?”

“This is my fault,” the changeling whispers frantically as the back of Jim’s head lolls against his chest. “This is _all_ my fault. If I’d just told you. _Warned_ you. We were so stupid to keep this a secret. Jim, you’re… You’re a hybrid.”

Pain explodes suddenly in the boy’s back and Walter’s strong, secure grip is the only thing that keeps him from convulsing onto the floor. When the spasms begin to recede a moment later, Jim manages to gasp, “A what?”

“Hybrid,” Walter nearly chokes on the word. “Half human, half changeling. We were going to tell you. I swear it. Next weekend… Your mother and I were going to tell you next weekend.”

Jim takes a deep, strangled breath. “I don’t… understand.”

“I’m your father, Jim.” Walter squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head, cheek coming to a rest against Jim’s tangled crown as the boy’s shuddered breathing begins to slow. “Your _real_ father. James Lake wasn’t… It was just the one night and she didn’t know how to tell him. But this… This isn’t how you were supposed to find out. This wasn’t supposed to happen at all. And I’m… I’m so sorry, son. I’m so –“

Something smashes into the side of his head. Hard.

And then there’s the buzzing again.

Though the sound goes completely unnoticed by Walter – whose sole focus is the sudden absence of Jim’s messy brown locks against his wet cheek. His eyes flutter open and he cries out in shock, fingers grasping futilely at the air where his son had just been propped on his chest. “Where? What?”

There’s a loud clap, followed immediately by Toby’s self-satisfied, “Got it!”

And by the time it clicks in his brain, Walter has already turned to find Jim – a regular, human boy once more – staring at him with wide, stunned eyes. “Ah, Young Atlas.” He awkwardly swipes his fingertips under his eyes and clears his throat. “How much of that did you –“

“Is it true?”

Enough, then.

Heart still racing, the changeling drops his gaze to where his hands are now fidgeting on his lap. He’s carefully considered dozens, if not _hundreds_ , of versions of this conversation since he learned the truth of Jim’s paternity all those months ago, but none of the scenarios he’d imagined took place mere moments after being blindsided by a hellish, pixie-induced hallucination.

“Strickler,” Jim prompts calmly when there’s no immediate response. “Is it true?”

Walter squeezes his hands into fists, but quickly shakes them back out. “Yes. It’s true,” he says finally, looking up as he rocks back on his heels to stand. “I’m… your father, Jim.”

The boy blinks once, twice, three times – and then, “What the _hell_ , Strickler?”

The changeling flinches. “I understand you may have a few questions.”

“Uh, you think?” Jim snorts incredulously, distraught. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or, no. Why didn’t my mom tell me? And how did… Oh, god. Like… How did this even happen?”

“Well…” Walter trails off with a grimace. “You see, I… have no idea where to start.”

“Dude,” Toby – who had been all but forgotten up to this point – sighs from the other side of the office. He’s put a lot of effort into ferreting out this secret and is not about to let the changeling’s uncharacteristic uncertainty keep him from the answers he, too, is determined to have. “Start from the beginning. When and where did you meet Dr. Lake?”

“Oh.” Walter shoots the teen a somewhat annoyed, somewhat grateful look before turning back to Jim. “I suppose we met at a pub. A campus pub. Ted’s, actually. I was teaching history at the same university Barbara attended for medical school, and we just happened to sit next each other at the bar. She tried to steal my drink. We hit it off and… Well, I’m sure you can use your imagination.”

“I don’t want to,” Jim groans as he rubs a hand over his face and leans back against the bookshelf. “And I really don’t understand. You guys hooked up and she just went back to my– to James? And told him I was his? Why? You guys are, like, _stupidly_ in love with each other and you obviously had some sort of connection back then.” He frowns. “Did you just… not want me, either?”

“Jim, no,” Walter says firmly, bowing forward to match the boy’s eye level. “That’s absolutely not… Your mother left before we could exchange numbers, and I’d already moved out of the country by the time she realized she was pregnant with you. She had no way to contact me. Not with my spotty email. I had no idea you were mine. At least, not until you started growing horns last semester.”

“Growing horns?” Jim’s nose wrinkles and he tilts his head, eyes widening a second later. “The gaggle-tack. I started changing when I touched it, didn’t I? It wasn’t just an allergic reaction. Wait. Is that what you were dreaming about just now? What could happen when my horns come in?”

Walter snorts mirthlessly and straightens, rolling his shoulders back as the image of Jim contorting in pain flashes through his mind. It had felt _so_ real. “Horns, fangs, wings… All of it at once.”

“Jim has wings?” Toby gasps and clasps his hands together. “Like, _wings_?”

“He could have a tail, for all I know.” The changeling sighs in Toby’s direction before turning back to Jim. “What I saw is just a visual representation of what I imagine you will look like.”

“What I’ll look like when I turn into a troll, because you’re my real dad and that makes me half-changeling.” Jim releases a chuckle that, like his father’s earlier snort, is devoid of any humor. “Jeez, that sounds so surreal.”

“Like something out of a movie,” Toby says to him, sagely nodding his agreement. “Or cheesy Gun Robot fanfiction.”

“Listen,” Walter starts, ignoring the impulse to roll his eyes as he moves forward to rest a hand on Jim’s shoulder. The boy glances at the appendage, but doesn’t flinch away. “I know this is a lot to process and that it may take some time for you to… trust me after this latest deception. But I do hope you’ll come to accept me as your father someday.”

“Strickler, I –“

The door, of course, swings open at that exact moment.

A barrage of pixies dart into the office, sending the occupants scurrying – Toby dives behind the desk, Jim somersaults to the opposite end of the room, and Walter lunges for a textbook. Which isn’t the most conventional weapon, but it works quite well against the swarm of malicious flying creatures.

“Ugh! I forgot all about these things,” Jim groans, dodging to his left before squishing a tiny assailant against the wall. “What are they?”

“Pixies.” Walter sends one of the little beasts careening into the bookshelf with a growl. “Don’t let them near your nose or ears. And shut your mouth, Domzalski. That’s how they get into your head to wreak… havoc!”

The warning, however, comes a bit too late.

“What are pixies doing in the school?” Jim lets out a whine, watching worriedly as his best friend’s eyes glaze over and a dopey grin forms on his face. “And how did they get here?”

“They were often weaponized in the old wars,” Walter explains hastily and slams his textbook shut on two unfortunate pixies. He turns around to level a pointed, anxious look at Jim. “Or used as a diversionary tactic to draw attention away from the real threat.”

“Angor Rot,” Jim breathes. “He’s here, isn’t he? In the school?”

“I would assume so.”

“Crap!”

The boy’s eyes dart toward the door, and Walter reluctantly jerks his head in that direction. “Go. I’ll find you after I get Toby sorted out.”

Jim nods and dashes into the hallway, only to poke his head back into the office a second later. “Strickler? It’s like these things make you see your worst nightmare…”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Walter grunts and gives Jim a small, encouraging smile as he kicks his foot out to stomp on the last pixie. “If they get to you, just remember that it’s all an illusion. It may feel real, but it’s not. None of it.”

“Okay. But, um. I was dying, wasn’t I? In your dream?”

Walter swallows, eyebrows knitting as he admits, “Yes.”

“I, um…” A myriad of emotions – hurt, betrayal, uncertainty – flash across Jim’s face as he struggles to organize his thoughts. “I’m still really confused right now. _Really_ confused. But I think… I think I can maybe accept you as my dad someday. Maybe.”

And then he’s off.

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up - this is the only fully written chapter, so updates will be sporadic and not super timely.


End file.
